


The Wonder that's Keeping the Stars Apart

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, McSpirk Holiday Fest, Multi, Plot, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Written for the McSpirk holiday fest.  Prompt by waywardconsultingtimelady: "The trio live in Yorktown AU. Jim works at a chocolate shop. Spock is a florist. Bones sends Joanna gifts on holidays. One Valentines Day he realizes that Jim and Spock know each other and wouldn't mind him asking them out."  I added Kalara, Manas, and the abronath, and a sweet, innocent Valentine's Day AU turned into an unexpected Yorktown adventure....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waywardconsultingtimelady](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=waywardconsultingtimelady).



> The title is a reference to "i carry your heart with me(i carry it in" by e. e. cummings.

The florist was a real Vulcan. That surprised Leonard McCoy; everybody knew about the Narada disaster. There weren’t so many Vulcans left these days. And everybody knew Vulcans went for the really brainy professions—astrophysics, chemical engineering, computer design, hypermathematics—the kind of stuff you had to spend years pumping mental iron to do.

But here this guy was, bowl cut and all, with an FTD sign in his window, calmly and precisely noting down the exact order and tallying the cost and tax inside his head with barely a pause.

“Your daughter will receive her gift on Valentine’s Day exactly as specified,” the florist stated, accepting Leonard’s handwritten slip. 

“Be sure it’s a bouquet in a vase, with those big scented stargazer lilies she loves,” Leonard insisted.

“No substitutions, on time, at school where her classmates will witness the delivery,” the Vulcan repeatedly, as unruffled as a frozen pond. 

“Well, they say Vulcans can’t lie, right?” Leonard sighed and pulled out his credit chip.

“That is, indeed, what many humans say.” The Vulcan looked absolutely inscrutable as he swiped Leonard’s chip, but somehow he managed not to convey the subtle aura of disapproval so many Vulcans carried around them like a shield. 

Leonard wondered, suddenly, if he was all Vulcan. There was a subtle pinkish cast to his lips that might or might not be lipstick, and the pinnae of his ears weren’t quite shaped right. He could see a hint of triangular fossa in there, a structure full Vulcans didn’t have. If this guy was a half-breed, maybe that’s why he wasn’t off somewhere doing math so complicated it made Leonard’s brain hurt just thinking of it.

The Vulcan wasn’t at all bad looking—if he’d lose the bowl cut, he might even be stunning. Leonard liked the way his shirt pulled taut across his shoulders as he tore off the receipt. He admired the curve of the man’s ass as he bent over to tuck the machine away.

Leonard sighed, catching himself peeking. If he was eyeing up a Vulcan, it’d been way too long since he had a date. He pulled it together and had his eyeballs back in his head by the time the Vulcan turned around. Maria was right; he needed to get back up on the horse and stop letting his divorce sour him on relationships. He needed to think about his future.

Or maybe it was just Valentine’s Day getting him down. The pressure to get yourself someone to cuddle with could get pretty strong this time of year. As if a Vulcan would ever want to cuddle! He gave the guy a wistful look as he straightened his shirt, then made himself quit ogling the man before he could get caught.

“You know any good chocolatiers?” Leonard asked him abruptly. “I ought to order Joanna some truffles, too.” Damn it, being a doctor kept him too busy. It made it hard to be a good father—especially when you were posted halfway across the damn galaxy from the daughter in question.

“There is a chocolatier nearby who offers stasis-box shipping for a relatively reasonable price. His confections are of significantly higher quality than many others on Yorktown, especially considering the cost of his product.” The florist pushed a card across the countertop to Leonard, one featuring a picture of what looked like a half-acre of velvety milk chocolate truffles in soft focus: some with decorative curlicues on top, some of them gilded, all of them looking so good Leonard was tempted to eat the card. “Turn right leaving the shop and take the second left. His establishment is approximately 100 meters down and to the left.”

“Thanks.”

Leonard walked out, gazing up at the control spire looming directly overhead, where the ops department held court over the entire damn snowglobe of a station. The pay for working on Yorktown was good, but this place gave him the damn creeps. He couldn’t help but think about how much could go wrong. He didn’t like to come to this neighborhood, either; it was too close to the center, in the heart of the Starfleet ops district. The prices were way too high for non-Starfleet personnel—those bastards could get just about anything they wanted; they just signed a credit voucher and everything settled up with the Federation later. 

Maybe he’d gone into the wrong business; he should’ve joined Starfleet instead of hunting a new place to put out his shingle. Most doctors made money hand over fist, but not Leonard McCoy. Not with him sending eighty percent of his earnings back to Jocelyn in the form of alimony for her and Joanna. Not with his soft heart. “You’d take in every stray cat that wandered past your office, Len,” Maria always said, and damned if she wasn’t right. 

Not that there were a lot of animals here, and none of the few he’d seen were strays. But there were a lot of crazy-ass people wandering through, and a bunch of them didn’t have as much money as they needed, and he was reputed as the best xenobiology specialist on Yorktown, Starfleet be damned. So there was no telling who or what would be waiting whenever he went in to his office, or how much he’d be paid—or even with what. Maria was good about helping out, though, even when her nursing duties kept her after hours.

Sighing, Leonard turned left at the second block and began scanning for the chocolate shop. He only had a month till the holiday; there might not be time for a stasis shipment to make it to Earth. There it was—a brown sign with fancy gilded lettering. He made a beeline for the door.

The clerk was a handsome man with sandy hair and blue eyes. He looked more like a fashion model than a chocolatier, though Leonard’s practiced eye could see the potential for the man to lose his svelte waistline if he sampled too many of his own wares. He was smiling, slipping a chocolate turtle to a little Andorian girl, who reached for it eagerly with both hands as her oblivious mother inspected the contents of a nearby rack.

There were hot chocolate samples available as well, and despite the steady station-wide ambient temperature of 22 degrees centigrade, Leonard poured himself a tiny cup. His eyes closed as it hit his tongue and he sighed with bliss; he’d swear that was made with—

“Real cream. We import it weekly.” The blue-eyed man had appeared before him, smiling up through golden lashes. 

“Heaven in a cup,” Leonard said, taking another taste. “Your own recipe?”

“A proprietary secret. You can buy a full cup or get some of our mix—but it won’t taste as good if you put in synthetic milk.” The man tilted his head and stepped to the right, pulling out a tray of pecans in hardened syrup. “You sound like a praline man to me.”

“I can’t imagine what gave me away,” Leonard drawled, looking at the tray with interest. “But I didn’t come here to do away with my own youthful figure. There’s a florist on the main drag who gave me your card. I’m looking for a gift for my little girl. …Her metabolism is a lot more forgiving than mine.”

“Kids,” the man sighed wistfully, blue eyes sparkling; he held eye contact with Leonard just a second too long for it to feel purely professional. “I wish I could turn back the clock to the good old days when I could eat burgers and fries and soda pop and ice cream at every meal without having to spend the next week in the gym trying to burn off one little indulgence.”

“Don’t we all.” Leonard wondered what Joanna would like. “My daughter’s about five. A lot of this stuff looks incredible, but the subtleties will probably be lost on her.”

“Most children’s palates aren’t very well-developed,” the man agreed. “For a child, I’d suggest our chocolate-dipped strawberries.” He moved to the side, popping up with a tray of fat red berries dipped in milk chocolate, drizzled with a latticework of white chocolate and dark chocolate for contrast. “Grown right here on Yorktown.” The berries looked so good they made Leonard’s mouth water.

“How well would those keep in stasis, Mr…?” he didn’t see a nametag anywhere on the man’s chocolate-stained apron.

“Call me Jim.” Again the blue eyes sparkled at him with an invitation so warm it made Leonard conscious of his tight collar. “These are ideal for stasis shipments, but stasis doesn’t come cheap, and Terra’s a long way. This for Valentine’s?”

“Yeah.” Leonard nodded, grimacing.

“They’d probably make it in time—I can’t guarantee there won’t be delays along the way, though. You never know what’s going to happen in space. Still, with our stasis boxes, the berries could take twenty years to arrive and they’d still be as fresh and juicy as they are today.” 

The bouquet was guaranteed to be on time; it’d be an order wired to Earth, not a shipment. So even if the truffles were a little late, Joanna would still have her Valentine’s Day gift. Leonard considered that as he watched the tip of Jim’s tongue dart out to slide over his lower lip, which looked plenty fresh and juicy in its own right. 

Hell—not ten minutes after he caught himself eyeing that prissy Vulcan, here he was getting ready to pounce on the chocolate shop guy. He scoffed at himself. He was either gonna have to get laid or start taking a saltpeter supplement. 

Jim smirked like he could read Leonard’s mind. “Let’s pack up a box for her, shall we?”

They did, stuffing it full of various tidbits to go along with the berries. Leonard started to sweat thinking of the final tally.

When Jim delivered the bad news, it wasn’t quite the deathblow to his wallet that he’d expected, so he forked his chip over, watching as the man set the stasis field generator onto the box and fastened it down. 

“The stuff inside won’t even move with this thing running,” he assured Bones. “Nothing in this box will so much as bruise or crumble unless the courier ship gets hit by a supernova.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Bones groaned. “I heard about the Narada disaster a few years back.” 

Jim chuckled, rueful, and shook his head. “You’re right. That joke was in bad taste. I should apologize.” His eyes brightened. “We’re running a special promotion on our premium truffles tomorrow,” Jim said, affixing a shipment label to the box. “If you come by, I guarantee we’ll find something that’ll tickle your palate.” His sly glance seemed to promise that something might just be his own tongue. 

“I’m a long way off my usual stomping ground,” the excuse flew automatically to Leonard’s lips. “And I’m pretty busy. I have a medical practice—no telling what I’ll have on my plate come morning.”

Jim chuckled and gave him a wink. “You’re a sawbones? I never would’ve guessed.” He ran insolent, merry eyes over Leonard, leaving him to wonder just exactly what Jim would have thought he did for a living.

“Ugh,” Leonard said, shuddering. “Using a hacksaw on human bone? Not in this day and time, thank God.”

Jim chuckled. “Whatever you say, Bones. But do me a favor and think about it. And if you’re ever back in the florist’s, thank Spock for the referral. He always knows just the right sort to send my way.” He pressed another card into Leonard’s hand.

Leonard raised a brow at that, more at the nickname than anything else. “Will do.” He’d probably never see either of them again. It made him feel a little sad. Most of the people he met were stretched out on a biobed and had a variety of unpleasant medical procedures in store. 

He stuck the card into his pocket without thinking and went to find the nearest site-to-site. He hated the damn things, but his lunch break was nearly over.

*****

McCoy’s afternoon didn’t go well; the ops department decreed yet another emergency drill right in the middle of minor surgery and Leonard had to airlock his operating room and go to battery power, then rush to finish. A few security goons came by to check compliance when they saw his light, and since the surgery wasn’t an emergency case, he had to fill out a ton of annoying paperwork explaining his decision not to go dark as ordered. 

“Fucking Starfleet and their fucking meddlesome fucking regulations,” he spat at Maria while he worked to print his justification in the microscopic box provided for the purpose. “Why the hell can’t they leave us alone?”

“You said yourself this place is like a snowglobe waiting to break,” she said patiently. “You can’t have it both ways, doctor. Either we do regular disaster drills, or lots of innocent people die when there’s an actual problem.” She bent over, snagging a scrap of paper off the floor. "What’s this? Somebody’s comm code?”

It was the card from the chocolatier. Bones couldn’t just snatch it from her, she was already grinning. “Who is she? You know, I could go for some super-dark chocolate.”

“You’ll have to go yourself if you want any. It isn’t a she. It’s a guy who probably figures I’ve got a lot of money to blow at his damn shop.” He finally nabbed the card and tucked it away in his pocket; remembering Jim’s sly, sexy grin, he just couldn’t bring himself to toss it in the recycler.


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy had almost forgotten the business card by the next day, but an emergency call cut his lunch break short. He rushed back to his office to find his florist waiting there, clutching a hand that dripped green onto the operating field, which Maria had already prepped.

“How the hell did a florist wind up with a plasma burn like that?” Leonard whistled as he pulled the man’s fingers apart. 

“It is occasionally necessary to sterilize equipment to prevent bacterial contamination.”

“With hot plasma, you could vaporize a pair of floral shears.” McCoy waved a coagulator over the hand and began wiping away the green preparatory to operating. “You have any anatomical peculiarities I ought to know about?”

“I am a human/Vulcan hybrid. The Vulcan genome is largely dominant.”

Bingo. McCoy had an eye for anatomical anomalies. He suppressed a smirk. 

“My blood type is T negative, but I should not require supplemental blood for such a minor injury, so that should not pose an issue.”

“I’ll be the judge of what medical treatments are necessary,” McCoy snapped. “How’d you wind up here?”

“Rumor has it you are the best xenobiological physician on this station.” The Vulcan—Spock—eyed him calmly. “Have you had any experience with treating Vulcanoid lifeforms?”

“I’m not a specialist, but I’ve had a few of you on the table. Copper based blood, vascular system centered around a heart in the rightward iliac area, various mystical self-treatment preferences and a couple of physiological coping mechanisms your standard humanoid doesn’t have, such as the ability to self-heal from deep meditation, which requires outside interference to terminate.” McCoy gingerly wiped the angry edges of the burn; the Vulcan never even flinched. “Impressive ability to self-regulate and ignore pain,” he commented dryly, getting out his protoplaser and his regenerator. “I’m going to give you a strong painkiller anyway before I debride. Got any allergies?”

“Morphine- and opium-based opiates will have limited effect on Vulcan physiology.”

“I know that. I asked, ‘do you have any allergies?’” McCoy had a hard time staying patient with patients who assumed he was ignorant, or ones who didn’t listen to him and give him requested information.

“I have experienced negative reactions to meperidene and related compounds.”

“Noted.” McCoy frowned. “It’s probably because of your low blood pressure. You don’t want anything that might send you into hypotensive arrest.” He came up with a phial. “Let’s try this. It’s azinerol. Supposed to be safe for Vulcanoids. If your hybrid physiology doesn’t throw a monkey wrench into the works, we ought to be good. If you start to react, I’ll drop back ten and punt.”

The Vulcan’s lids flickered, indicating he didn’t understand, but he didn’t speak up, so McCoy gave him a local injection and tested Spock with a probe to gauge his sensitivity under anesthesia. When he didn’t flinch, McCoy started treatment, aware of the Vulcan watching him.

“I had intended to seek you out even if I remained uninjured,” the Vulcan said, surprising McCoy, who flickered a glance up at the impassive face. “My friend James and I spoke of you.”

“James. Jim? That the guy from the chocolate shop?” McCoy was glad to see the damage was restricted to the soft tissue; he’d be able to leave the bones alone and regenerate upward from there. 

“Yes. He was impressed by your charisma and self-discipline.”

Bones actually blinked at him for a few seconds before remembering what he was doing. “Was he now.” He shook his head. “He made quite an impression himself.” He didn’t specify further. 

“I requested him to advise me before you and I encountered one another again,” Spock said politely. “And he has done so, albeit in limited form.” He reached awkwardly, left-handed, to fumble a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “It is a list of opening phrases. Perhaps they are now unnecessary, but he urgently advised me to select one and utilize it.” He cleared his throat with the faintest trace of a frown, reading aloud. 

“My eyes must be malfunctioning, for I cannot cease looking at you.”

McCoy stopped himself abruptly halfway to reaching for an opthalmoscope. “What?” His voice had more of a squeak to it than he cared to admit.

“Perhaps I selected poorly.” The faint frown was deeper now. “My given name is Spock, but you may communicate with me tonight.”

McCoy blinked, not quite sure how to react. “Lemme see that.” He read the contents of the paper with growing disbelief:

_My eyes must not be working, because I can’t stop looking at you._  
_People call me Spock, but you can call me tonight._  
_You must be good at algebra; can you replace my X without asking Y?_  
_Someone should call station security, because you just stole my heart._  
_My attraction for you is like dividing by zero– it cannot be defined._  
_Is your father an art thief? Because you’re a masterpiece._  
_I’m new to the station. Could you give me directions to your quarters?_  
_I’m drowning in your eyes and require resuscitation._  
_I seem to have lost my comm code. May I have yours?_  
_I hope you know CPR, because you take my breath away._

He boggled for a minute, struggling to select a response—was Jim fucking with this guy, setting him up with corny pick-up lines and trying to sabotage the Vulcan’s chances to improve his own? Hell—that was the wrong damn question altogether. A better question was this: what the hell did a Vulcan want with pick-up lines? The entire situation assumed Spock’d want to pick someone up—that he’d want to pick up _Leonard McCoy._ Insanity.

“You’ve gotta read those just like they are, or some of them won’t work,” he hedged. 

“Would they work if I did so?” Spock suddenly seemed to be sitting entirely too close. ....Maybe the man was smoother than he seemed.

“I’ve gotta finish with your hand,” McCoy muttered, feeling his cheeks burn red. Maria was busy in the corner, listening so hard her ears were nearly as pointed as the Vulcan’s.

“My apologies. I believed you behaved in a manner that indicated attraction to me. I was endeavoring to demonstrate reciprocal interest.”

“That’s very nice. But right now I’m up to my middle phalanx in your flexor surface, which if I’m not mistaken is something of an erogenous zone for your people. Don’t you think you ought to let me finish before you distract us both?”

“Your point is taken. I find it highly logical.” Spock subsided, and McCoy could just glimpse Maria’s shoulders shaking with hilarity. 

“Damn it, nurse, go fetch me…” invention failed him. “Something it’ll take more than half an hour to find. I don’t care what. Just _git!_ ”

She failed to flee with the proper alacrity, but she did leave, and when she was gone McCoy sighed with relief, finally able to concentrate. He regenerated the muscle, then laid synth-skin over that, aligning the nerves with ones present in the natural tissue and fusing them to Spock’s own nervous system. “I’m afraid this stuff will itch a little until your body replaces it. It’ll take a week or so. It’s rated for your xenotype, but it’s not as good as Vulcanoid-specific stuff. I don’t have any of that on hand, or I’d use it. There’s not much call for—” he flushed. “That is to say, most Vulcans prefer to patronize their own doctors, and we don’t have many of them resident on the station.”

Spock did not seem offended by the reference to the scarcity of his people. He flexed his hand, testing it. 

“It seems a quite efficient repair.” Spock rubbed his fingertips together, testing the sensation in them though they were not part of the damaged area. “Very satisfactory.” His comm unit chirped and he drew it out, tilting the screen so McCoy couldn’t see the message awaiting him. 

Though his expression didn’t change, it seemed to Leonard that he radiated sudden displeasure. 

“Isn’t that a Starfleet comm?” McCoy peered at it, curious.

“Refurbished models are available in the materiel surplus store.” The Vulcan straightened his already-rigid spine. “I must be about my business at this time, but I will return to renew my inquiries if you do not object.” He stood, tugging his tunic to tidy away any rumples. 

“I, uh.” McCoy flushed again and busied himself with the record-keeping Maria would’ve been so helpful with if he hadn’t shooed her away. After Spock departed, he realized he hadn’t made the required objections. The Vulcan would be back.

McCoy swallowed hard, his quickened heart rate matching the flutter in his belly. As God was his witness, he had no idea what he ought to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens....

Leonard wasn’t too surprised the next morning when he walked into his office and saw Jim sitting in the waiting room, directing a big shit-eating grin at him over the top of a magazine. 

“The answer is no,” McCoy said immediately. 

“I haven’t even asked you a question!” Jim spread his hands, protesting his innocence.

“You were about to. You were gonna say something like ‘If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me’ or some other lame-ass pickup line you kept for yourself instead of foisting it off on that poor bastard Spock.”

Jim pouted. “You didn’t give him much of an answer.”

Of course the two were comparing notes. Was this some kind of a game? Were they competing to see which of them could pull him? Probably so. Leonard bristled a little, offended. “I’m a mature human male with a normal endocrine system. If I wanted an unresponsive partner, I’d already have a blow-up doll hidden in a closet in my quarters.” _Or I’d have stayed married to Joss._

Jim’s smile evaporated instantly, transforming to a scowl. “That’s a pretty racist thing to say.”

McCoy sighed. “He’s half-Vulcan. Vulcans make their refusal to display emotion into a point of pride. Not that it’s any of your business, but I prefer a partner who offers me a little more warmth than that.”

Instead of taking that as encouragement to pursue his own suit, Jim kept frowning. “They’re extremely selective about when they choose to express emotion, and about who they let get close enough to see them do it,” the man corrected, and gave Leonard a pointed look. “They don’t ask people out very often. That’s why he came to me for help.”

“And you gave him a pocketful of the worst pickup lines known to mankind.” McCoy rolled his eyes with exasperation. “If I were him, I’d pop you one.”

Jim shrugged, absolutely confident and unrepentant-- the kind of supreme self-assurance and poise you saw on a prince regent, not a random clerk in a chocolate shop. “I bet he was cute as hell delivering them.”

Leonard tried to reconcile the term ‘cute’ with the Vulcan in his memory-- beautiful, yes, incredibly handsome, even exquisite. Spock had easily been as poised as Jim himself, only in a completely different way, like a statue of the moon carved from ice. Remote. Austere. Intimidating. Intriguing, maybe. Not ‘cute.’

“I wouldn’t say cute.”

“No?” Jim looked disappointed. “He said you were a damn good doctor. His hand looked like new.”

“Do _you_ need medical attention?” McCoy abruptly stopped floundering and seized control of the situation.

“Actually not, but--”

“Then it’s been a pleasure talking with you, but I have important work to do.” While they’d been chatting, a small handful of people had wandered in, providing a convenient excuse for escape. Leonard smiled perfunctorily at Jim and went through the door that separated the waiting room from the consulting area, one conveniently labeled “no entry without authorization.”

Maria brought him the note about an hour later.

 _Bones, I’m sorry. That didn’t go quite like I planned. I didn’t mean for us to get sidetracked arguing about Spock. I actually came by to give you something. Hope you like them better than you like me. JTK_

The note was fastened to a little crinkly plastic packet of pralines festooned with gold and black curling ribbon. McCoy sighed and detached it, tossing the packet of candies back to Maria. “Permission to spoil your diet.”

“That guy was smoking hot. I’m guessing you like the Vulcan better?”

“I don’t like either one of them.” 

Maria just grinned and dug in for a pecan. “Bullshit,” she said with her mouth full. “You never told the Vulcan he couldn’t court you and you let the praline man leave without even tearing him a new one. You actually smiled at him on your way out.”

“That doesn’t mean I like them.”

“Coming from you, it’s almost a proposal of marriage.”

Leonard wished he’d hung onto the pralines. At least then he’d have something to throw at her head.

He buried himself in his work, hoping he’d managed to discourage Jim-- but he doubted it. That kind of self-confidence didn’t take dismissal easily. 

An alien woman dragged herself in at about eleven-thirty, presenting with burns over about 30% of her body. Leonard scowled. The burns were at least a day old. They’d be infected, or his name wasn’t Leonard H. McCoy. 

“What’s your genotype?” he asked, rifling through his anesthetics.

“Humanoid.” She didn’t much look it; she had pronounced cranial ridges covering most of her head and throat, like the bony frills of a particularly intimidating variety of lizard. Her voice came through a universal translator, modulated and flattened until it sounded nearly as mechanical as a Vulcan’s.

“Any known drug sensitivities or allergies?”

She shook her head, trying not to move her burned arm and thigh. 

“We still need her identification,” Maria showed him the registration padd. The alien looked away casually, as if she failed to understand, and Leonard raised a brow at his nurse, tilting his head to send her away. Sometimes they treated rogues or renegades or downright thieves, people who didn’t have information or preferred not to provide it. He always did the best he could for them and sent them on their way in spite of the problems it created with his paperwork. 

“How’d you get these burns?” McCoy administered an opiate and started cleaning the tissue preparatory to debridement. “You’re the second set of plasma burns I’ve seen in a day.”

She blinked at him, her green eyes so pale they were almost yellow. “I was repairing the exhaust housing on my ship when my copilot started the engines without checking for personnel proximity prior to ignition.”

“Plasma drive?” McCoy pursed his lips, starting the debridement cycle. “It’ll take you quite a while to get anywhere with an old-fashioned propulsion system like that.” His tricorder beeped and he frowned at it, then tapped the controls on the biobed, asking for a full bioscan. “Looks like you might be hosting a bacterial organism you don’t want. I’ll see if I can’t eliminate it for you.” 

He kept his face indifferent as he eyed the readout. Her organs looked humanoid-- her neocortical DNA registered an almost perfectly pure match with a normal human genome-- but physiologically she didn’t present like a human. Not at all. And when he looked at the readouts from the rest of her body, he’d have been hard pressed to say they had any relationship whatsoever to human genetic structure. She wasn’t a hybrid-- she was a bioengineered creation of some kind, and what’s more, she was in an active state of genetic flux.

“Have you experienced a traumatic genetic reprogramming event?” McCoy tapped at the panel, making a record of his findings. “There are some astonishing anomalies in your DNA and RNA structures.”

“Just heal the burns.” She fixed her cold almost-yellow eyes on him, radiating threat from every pore. Her intact hand slid down to her belt, hovering over something he was willing to bet was a weapon.

“You got it.” He put on an act of supreme indifference, sealing synthetic skin over the burned and debrided area. “None of my damn business.” He handed her some broad-spectrum antibiotics and a topical anesthetic. “Try to stay away from plasma exhaust ports from now on.”

She left with a final, forbidding glance, and McCoy slumped onto his office chair with a huff. For a second, he’d fully expected her to shoot him. He checked the camera channel that displayed his waiting room: empty.

“Maria, let’s cancel our afternoon appointments and close up shop. I’ve had about as much as I can stand for one day.” He wished he’d snitched a couple of the pralines for himself. 

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, crossing his ankles. 

“I’m sorry, doctor. We’ve just received an emergency call. There’s a critically injured S’kelan incoming via emergency transport. Two other doctors looked at him but his physiology is so different from a humanoid they couldn’t help. They said you could do something if anyone could.”

McCoy lurched out of his chair and sprinted down to his emergency facility. The S’kelan materialized on the table as he hurried in, looking like nothing McCoy had ever seen. His reptilian physiology shouldn’t show illness the way a human would-- but his flesh had sunken, shriveling tight against his bones, and he showed an unnatural green-gray pallor. McCoy scanned him and cursed.

“Doctor?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s as if his internal organs are decaying right before my eyes. Look!” She leaned over his shoulder, watching the being’s lungs and heart shrivel in on themselves, disintegrating away. “I can’t help him. Nobody could.” He fumbled for a hypospray, hoping to spare the creature pain, but before he could bring it to bear, the S’kelan exhaled with a low hiss and went still. 

“Shit.” Thwarted adrenaline pulsed through him, turning sick in his belly. “What the hell happened to this guy?!”

She stared at him, white-faced. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Neither have I.” McCoy swallowed hard. “Let’s just hope it’s not contagious.”


	4. Chapter 4

McCoy sent Maria out to deal with the inevitable Starfleet security goons while he set about analyzing the remains. Six hours later, he was relatively sure the condition wasn’t infectious in any way, but he was no closer to determining what had actually caused it. 

It was a lot like desiccation, only near–immediate and it included more than the removal of fluids. It was as if something had drawn all the vitality out of the affected cells, including their DNA, their mitochondria… just about everything except for several compounds that formed the basic structure of cellular membranes, leaving the bodies shriveled but intact—and hollow, as the majority of the internal organs disintegrated completely, consumed without leaving a trace behind.

He reported his findings to the Starfleet physicians that followed the security detail down to his office. They clucked like a bunch of broody hens and accomplished just about nothing as they glared at the readouts and nitpicked his study methods without being able to suggest any better approach. Eventually he transmitted copies of his scans to the central Federation database for them to pore over and excused himself, leaving them to it while he went home to sleep.

The damage from the bee ships’ attack on Yorktown was uncomfortably visible in the distance as McCoy made his way home. A crashed starship still lay beached in one of the central plazas, Starfleet crewmen in engineering red swarming all over it, looking exactly like the little red spider mites that used to infest the leaves of his mother’s marigolds. He shuddered, trying to keep his eyes on his feet. Maria was right; all the drills were necessary. That whole attack had been a close call: too damned close for comfort.

McCoy usually liked to walk home just to get some exercise and fresh air, but this time he felt so tired he used the site-to-site.

Jim leaned against the wall on his doorstep, giving the impression of a man who’s been cooling his heels for quite a while. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a knothole backwards,” he said amiably. “How would you feel about a quiet, home-cooked meal for two in the privacy of your own home?”

“I’m not cooking you dinner.” McCoy gave him a martyred glare.

“I meant I’d cook it for you,” Jim shifted his feet, revealing a brown paper shopping bag perched on the curb. A baguette stuck out of it, tantalizing McCoy. Damn it, he’d forgotten to eat again.

“You aren’t shy, are you.” McCoy put his palm on the security scanner that opened his door. “Most guys would take this morning as a ‘no.’”

“I’m not most guys.” Jim’s grin was infectious. He picked up his shopping bag and stepped inside behind Leonard. “Nice place.”

Jesus Christ. He was actually letting this guy inside his home. He ought to have his head examined.

“The cleaning service won’t come for another two days.” McCoy snatched a crumpled shirt off the couch and flung it into his bedroom, then kicked his shoes and socks in after it and shut the door.

Jim laughed. “Call that a mess? I have a—service,” he audibly amended his first choice of word, “that picks up after me. Otherwise I’d be living waist-deep in my own dirty laundry.” A shadow of something passed across Jim’s face-- pain? Regret? Maybe he was divorced, too.

Leonard decided not to pursue the anomaly. “Kitchen’s that way. This is your one chance to wow me.”

Jim laughed. “I hope you like omelettes. I make a pretty mean omelette.”

“Breakfast for dinner?” McCoy groused.

“I wasn’t quite confident enough to think I’d be asked to stay until actual breakfast,” Jim’s insolent comment floated back out into the living room.

Leonard went to the door and leaned against the frame, watching Jim pull groceries out of the bag. He’d brought the fresh rosemary bread McCoy had spied earlier, a small melon, some eggs, mushrooms, ham, and a wedge of cheese. 

Jim sighed. “Damn, I knew I forgot something. You got any butter? Any whole milk?” He started washing the mushrooms.

McCoy snorted. “Looks like you need a keeper.”

“Or two,” Jim agreed, still jovial. 

Leonard pulled out some margarine and the cream he kept for his coffee. “Cutting board, knife…” he added the utensils, then went digging for his best skillet.

“Thanks.” Jim smiled, not the devastating grin from earlier, but a little lopsided half-smile McCoy found even more irresistible.

They put together a damned impressive ham, cheese, and mushroom omelette and even managed to get it turned without scrambling it, then halved it and sat down to eat with juice, toast, and slices of melon. Leonard sighed and closed his eyes, savoring his bite.

“I forgot to get lunch today,” he confessed with his mouth full. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, it’s been a busy day." Jim watched him wolf down his share. “So, are you wowed yet?”

“You had me at ‘home-cooked meal,’” McCoy admitted.

Jim chuckled and cut the rind off his slice of melon. “I guess you had a little excitement at the office this afternoon.”

“Classified, sorry.” Leonard shook his head. “I did have an odd case earlier, though.”

“Oh?”

“Strangest thing. Her DNA couldn’t decide what species it wanted her to be.” He frowned. “You never know what kind of crazy shit you’re gonna run into out here in deep space. For all I know, that’s perfectly normal for her kind—except there were enough residual DNA traces to make me believe she used to be human.”

Jim’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me more. Why did she come to you?”

“Sorry. Doctor/patient confidentiality.” McCoy sipped his juice and stifled a burp.

“Let me guess. She was burned.”

McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know that? She a friend of yours? …Of Spock’s?”

“Not really. But we know her.” Jim’s expression hardened. 

McCoy eyed him thoughtfully. “Spock gave me a lame excuse for his injury. Was she with him or something? She should’ve come in when he did.” His bullshit radar was screaming bloody murder. “Did she cause his injury?”

“Something like that.” Jim sighed. “If she comes back again, watch yourself. She’s dangerous.”

“Already figured that one out.” McCoy finished the last bite of his melon and sighed, feeling pleasantly stuffed. 

“I don’t suppose I could ask you to call me if she turns up again.”

“Nope.” Leonard gathered up their empty plates and put them in the cleanser. “I’m a doctor. People depend on my discretion.”

“People depend on… a lot of things.” Jim censored himself again, and McCoy raised a brow. Definitely something hinky with this guy. 

“You don’t act much like a chocolatier.”

“Really? Tell me that again after you try one of these.” Plastic crinkled, enticing, and a whiff of cocoa hit Leonard’s nostrils, soft and velvet-sweet. “Then I’ll get the hell out of your hair and let you rest—unless you want to change your mind and ask me to breakfast.”

McCoy accepted the truffle and bit in, groaning with decadent pleasure as the cordial center, composed largely of brandy, washed over his tongue. “Damn,” he muttered, licking at an escaped splash on his lip. 

Jim’s bright eyes followed his tongue with open lust, and for a moment the air between them pulsated with heat. 

“If you won’t agree to call me, you won’t,” Jim said after a minute. “But you should make an incident report with Starfleet security whenever someone dangerous visits your office.”

“Should I call and tell them about you?” Bones murmured, thinking vaguely of Jim’s offer to stay to breakfast. It was pretty goddamn tempting in spite of the mystery.

Jim smiled, slow and wicked and hot. “You can try it,” he whispered. “But you won’t get the results you want that way.” He set his hand on the cabinet behind McCoy’s head, their faces almost touching. Jim stood so close that Leonard could feel the heat of his body, and it sent a warm pulse of arousal singing through him.

“I’d almost be tempted if I didn’t think you and the Vulcan were playing a game to see which of you can get into my pants the fastest,” he said, and his voice quivered a little, spoiling his bravado. 

Jim laughed warmly at him. “The only game I’ve ever seen Spock play is chess.” His eyes slowly slid over Leonard’s face, lingering on his mouth. “When he and I play, we both play to win.” He grinned that sudden, devastating grin again. “But my favorite games are always the ones when we play to a draw.” 

He withdrew abruptly and straightened his T-shirt. “Thanks for your company tonight. I enjoyed it. Be seeing you around, Bones.”

“Not if I see you first,” Leonard managed to retaliate, feeling weak and shaky like a newborn colt. McCoy knew he didn’t mean it, and by the wink Jim threw over his shoulder as he vanished through the door, he wasn’t fooled, either.


	5. Chapter 5

Leonard didn’t sleep as well as he would have liked—he kept alternating between vivid, tense nightmares of the frill-headed mutant with her hand hovering over her weapon and hot, tingling dreams of Jim’s eyes sliding down to his lips and lingering there—and what might have come after. 

He finally heaved himself out of bed, cursing, and took care of himself in the shower. 

Breakfast was a lot less fun without Jim; he’d used up all his cream making the omelette and had to take his coffee black. There was still half a melon, though, so he peeled and ate a section of it, staring at the cellophane package of truffles on his table. He could take them to Maria, but then she’d know he’d met with Jim. She already had enough ammunition for teasing.

He decided to leave the bag where it was, but all his effort was wasted—because when he walked into his office, an enormous vase of flowers stood waiting for him on the reception desk. He blinked at the arrangement of huge, luscious white magnolia blossoms with their glossy green leaves shining under the light. How the _hell_ did the damn Vulcan manage to swing _that_? It wasn’t even spring back on Earth!

“Don’t even start!” he yelped as the receptionist swung around, already inhaling to speak. He snatched at the card, growling, and rolled his eyes to the heavens when “Georgia on My Mind” began to tinkle from a little tinny speaker when he opened it. That was more of Jim’s advice, or he was a rabbit.

He glared at the slender oriental man who stood by the desk, wearing the livery of the florist’s shop where Spock worked. “Don’t tell me. Your boss gave you a message to deliver.”

“He’d like you to meet him for lunch in the botanical garden on Theta Avenue,” the man said, unsuccessfully failing to hide a smirk. He held out his hand, one of the flower shop’s business cards in it, and tilted it to display the back, where an address had been inscribed in the Vulcan’s precise, rather fussy handwriting. 

Leonard could have sat right down on the spot and either laughed or cried—or maybe he’d have laughed till he cried. He’d had their game figured all wrong, it seemed. It wasn’t one or the other. It was _both_.

“You just tell your boss—”

“He’ll be there with bells on. Even if I have to sedate him and drag him by the heels,” Maria chirped from the door. The man inclined his head toward her, still struggling to hide his amusement, and cleared out before McCoy could correct the message. 

Leonard folded his arms and glowered as Maria and the secretarial staff oohed and cooed over the flowers. “If y’all think I’m gonna go meet that Vulcan for a date, you’ve got another think coming—”

“ _You’ve_ got an appointment with him at three, so you aren’t weaseling out of seeing him so easily,” Maria informed him with a cackle. “I scheduled a follow-up check on his hand.”

Leonard groaned. “It’s a god-damned conspiracy, that’s what it is.”

“Yer damn tootin’.” She beamed at him, mischievous.

“Darn tootin’,” he corrected her.

“Darn tootin’, damn fartin’, what’s the difference?”

That was more than Leonard could take and keep a straight face; the corner of his mouth jerked upward and he burst out laughing, spoiling all his grouchiness. 

“I’m afraid that’s not the only big news this morning,” Maria confessed. “The Starfleet medics sent you a document, and you’re going to explode when you see their preliminary conclusions….”

She led the way into his office, plopped him down in front of his terminal, then lugged in the magnolia vase and set it on the side wing of his desk. The mossy green smell of the familiar foliage kept him company while he ripped the incompetent medicos a new one just to stay in practice, shredding the scientific basis for their conclusions in a scathing email.

Noon arrived well before he was ready, and Maria bullied him until he changed into casual clothes, then chivvied him out into the street to go to his date. She pushed the address card into his hand. Then she retreated, firmly latching the door. Leonard growled, refusing to acknowledge his gratitude for her insistence. 

Maybe he was just being paranoid, but now that he was out in the street, Jim’s warning about the mutant woman returned to him. He glanced around, and sure enough, the office was under guard. He could pick out half a dozen Starfleet operatives loitering suspiciously in a variety of conspicuous ways: they all looked like tanks parked in a lot next to passenger vehicles. 

A dark-skinned human woman in a short brown silk dress passed between him and the nearest beefy guard, giving him a sly smile; he returned it and she flipped her ponytail over her shoulder at him before she moved on. He surrendered to the temptation to pivot, checking out her legs after she passed by, but he was already in enough relationship trouble as it was, so he didn’t try to chat her up. 

He was going to be late to his date if he didn’t move along, so he kept walking.

Spock stood waiting for him precisely on the requested coordinates; he looked a little uncomfortable in a severely tailored dark tunic and pants festooned in an eye-battering lacework of Celtic knots. Leonard supposed the V-neck represented a gesture toward what the Vulcan would probably call “informal attire.” 

He couldn’t deny the shiver that fluttered through his belly as Spock’s face lit up when he spotted Leonard approaching. He stepped forward to greet Leonard, raising one elegant hand in the Vulcan ta’al. “Live long and prosper, Leonard. I am pleased you have come.”

“Peace and long life,” Leonard managed, hoping he’d remembered the right response. He forced his fingers apart into the polite salute, using the fingers of his other hand. “How the hell’d you get your hands on those gorgeous magnolia blossoms?” he asked by way of kicking off a conversation. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was an improvement over cheesy pickup lines.

Spock straightened his spine with pride. “I have a specialty supplier who delivers via regular courier shipments. I requested the flowers shortly after you and I met.”

“You work nearly as fast as Jim.”

The man tilted his head, seeming unfazed by the direct comparison. “Indeed. Will you walk with me? I have selected a nearby bistro for our meal. I hope you will find it satisfactory.”

Spock’s choice was conservative but intelligent: a multicultural eatery that appealed to McCoy’s human palate while also offering Spock acceptable vegetarian choices. McCoy studied Spock as he ate, trying to be subtle about it. Spock had begun all this. He had sent McCoy to Jim; he had initiated whatever the hell was happening between the three of them. 

What in God’s name did the Vulcan think he saw in Leonard, anyway? He was just a grouchy divorcé. And a doctor… but surely a Vulcan wouldn’t be a gold-digger. Would he?

Spock was watching McCoy now, patient and curious. “Good salad?” Leonard asked, trying to look like that was what he’d been thinking all along.

“It is quite flavorful.” 

The conversation dragged after that, as McCoy had been afraid it might—he just didn’t know how to talk to a Vulcan. What did they have in common, after all? What were Vulcans interested in? Somehow it just didn’t seem polite to bring up the destruction of the man’s home world over grilled chicken and garden salad. He could hardly say ‘Lovely day. So how goes the slow, painful recovery from racial genocide?’

That wasn’t all. Beautiful and unusual as he was, Spock intimidated Leonard a little, and he found himself responding to the man’s stilted attempts at pleasantries with tongue-tied, awkward small-talk of his own. Their conversational gambits soon faltered and died. But Spock did not seem disturbed by their silences, and when they finished eating, he intercepted the check smoothly and insisted on paying with his Starfleet voucher. 

“I hoped you would come and walk with me in the park.”

Leonard agreed despite his nerves, busying himself with attempts to identify the trees—they’d grown a lot faster than their Terran counterparts, but a few of them vaguely reminded him of live-oak from the Georgia coast. 

Spock was first to break the growing silence between them. “You are nervous. I understand you have concerns regarding the particulars of a relationship with me.”

McCoy snorted with disgust. Jim had ratted him out, damn the man! “Don’t take it personally. I’m divorced from my wife. I have concerns regarding the particulars of a relationship with _anybody._ ”

“You have personal concerns specific to me as well.” Spock stopped. The diffuse light dappled through the leaves of the trees and danced on the grass, making it seem as if there were a real sun overhead. “I would like a chance to address them.” 

Leonard sighed and accepted the inevitable, making a mental note to beat Jim half to death with a baseball bat. 

Someone had embedded a sizeable chunk of debris from the nebula in the ground behind the spot where Spock stood. The park landscapers had taken the time to sow moss and lichens and little pink flowers in the crevices. The foliage had adapted well; the effect was startlingly realistic, enhanced by the fir-like branches overhead, their heavy tips nodding gently in the breeze. The motion sent light and shadow sliding over Spock’s face, the light catching in the ebony of his eyelashes and turning them the same deep golden brown as his irises.

McCoy took a slow breath, trying not to reveal his embarrassment. “What d’you have in mind?” He buried his hands in his pockets because crossing his arms over his chest would reveal even more of his nervousness. 

Spock tilted his head, the planes and angles of his alien features catching the light. “Communication will increase our familiarity with one another.” He moved away and settled himself on a bench tucked in the lee of the stone. “I have scheduled an appointment for you to examine my injury later this afternoon. Perhaps you would care to do it here instead?” He turned his hand over in his lap.

For an obvious ploy to get Leonard to hold Spock’s hand, it sounded pretty reasonable. “OK, if you want.” Leonard slid half-into doctor mode; it made him feel a lot more self-confident.

However, Spock did not yet extend his hand. “Leonard, I did not refer only to communication through speech. I am a touch telepath. I would like to engage in telepathic contact between us-- but first I will require your informed consent.”

“I was aware most Vulcanoids have telepathic abilities,” McCoy hedged, the reminder leaving him deeply uncertain about reaching for Spock’s hand. This suddenly seemed very heavy—a lot heavier than Jim’s seductive grins and the idea of a one-night stand terminated conveniently after breakfast the next morning.

Maybe that wasn’t what either Jim or Spock wanted from him. Jim had insisted that Spock didn’t do stuff like this lightly… and apparently he and Spock were a package deal. Bizarre. Intriguing. Like this half-alien man waiting in front of Leonard, asking if he could read Leonard’s mind. 

McCoy swallowed hard, pushing away a flutter of arousal at the idea of sharing telepathic awareness during sex. “So you’re warning me that if I touch you, you’ll know what I said to my ex-wife a decade ago last Tuesday?” 

Spock shook his head at once. “No. I will, however, experience your immediate emotional state, and I will be able to overhear your surface thoughts. Since you are untrained, however, I may glimpse memories as they flash involuntarily through your mind. They may not always be things you would wish to share.” 

Leonard grimaced. “I’ll never complain about wearing exam gloves again.”

Spock regarded him steadily. “I intend to share myself proportionate to anything I perceive.” He paused for a moment. “Would you prefer we proceed to your office instead?”

Leonard considered the offer. The risks of telepathic intimacy sounded a little like his grandfather’s favorite recommended method for curing the hiccups: ‘go out and sit on a stump and don’t think about black cats for ten minutes.’ It was impossible. The minute he let the guy into his mind, anything he didn’t want Spock to know was going to light up in flashing neon letters four feet high. Probably with whirligig sparkler fireworks rotating behind the information, too, just for good measure.

McCoy sighed. Maybe this was that it would take to put an end to the insanity for once and for all. The Vulcan would get his curiosity satisfied. Then he and his buddy could vanish back into trendy shop-land, leaving Leonard to get on with the business of being a doctor and paying alimony to his ex-wife.

“What the hell,” he said. “I’ll try just about anything once.” He seated himself gingerly at Spock’s side. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” he joked, causing Spock to raise an eyebrow. 

“Precisely,” he said, and McCoy could have sworn he’d nearly smiled. He extended his hand.

Hesitant, McCoy took it, deciding to proceed as if he were in his examination room. He turned Spock’s hand over between his, eyeing the synthetic skin. It was still a slightly different color than the rest of Spock’s skin and was absolutely smooth, lacking the creases and textured whorls Spock’s own skin would have after it re-grew, but it had sealed to the wound well, leaving no seams or bubbles that might indicate infection. He ran his thumbs over the expanse of Spock’s palm, watching Spock’s fingers curl slightly in response. “It looks healthy,” he said. “Not quite good as new, but it’s on its way. Are you experiencing normal sensation in your fingers?”

“Yes,” Spock said, a note of something throaty and dark in his voice. 

McCoy jerked his gaze up and saw Spock was flushing slightly, his pupils dilated. A distinct note of pleasure pervaded McCoy— and he realized suddenly that it was not his own. He could feel his own touch on Spock’s hand as though the hand being examined were his own, and it wasn’t like touching fingers ought to feel. It felt… intense. Pleasurable.

He swallowed thickly. “You’re feeling that.”

Spock nodded once, his gaze holding McCoy’s. 

“Your whole hand is an erogenous zone,” McCoy breathed. He couldn’t resist trailing his fingertips lightly through Spock’s palm again. 

“Yes. Particularly the fingertips.” Spock murmured through parted lips. _You may touch them... if you like._

McCoy flushed, accepting the invitation to verify this information for himself. He slowly ran his index finger over Spock’s, circling the pad of his fingertip against the Vulcan's. Spock’s eyelids sank nearly shut; a flood of warmth permeated McCoy in response to the caress. Spock sank his teeth into his lip and his nostrils flared; his cheeks blushed a subtle olive hue. 

“Wow,” McCoy said quietly. If Spock was this responsive to such a simple caress….

“This contact is the Vulcan equivalent of a human kiss.” Spock’s vibrant voice resonated through both McCoy’s ears and his mind. “I find the human activity quite pleasurable as well.” Amusement fluttered through him, quicksilver and subtle. His hand stirred, curving around McCoy’s and pulling him closer. 

Leonard found himself gazing into warm brown eyes and feeling the arousal and attraction he saw simmering there, coaxing forth his own growing interest. He swallowed hard, licking his lips, as Spock’s hand slid up his arm and behind his neck. The Vulcan tilted Leonard’s head carefully. Giving him time to pull away, Spock slowly leaned in for a kiss.

Pure, consuming bliss pulsed between them as their lips brushed, then clung. Leonard gasped into the kiss, feeling Spock’s mind mesh and balance with his— intelligence, compassion, curiosity, and desire, all precisely mated— even McCoy’s disconsolate pain and self-loathing over the loss of his home, his wife, and his daughter were mirrored by the terrible sadness and guilt shadowing Spock from the destruction of his people, his planet, and his mother. 

He gasped into Spock’s mouth, feeling something he did not know how to describe-- a sense of _rightness,_ of _welcome,_ and of _perfect fit,_ as if he had slid into a warm bath-- in a tub made precisely to his measure.

Spock murmured softly into the kiss, a low hum of approval. Their tongues touched and McCoy slid his shyly against Spock’s, trying to respect the delicate intensity of the moment. How odd and terrifying it seemed to kiss a stranger and feel as if he were coming home!

 _I sensed the fit between our minds when you entered the shop._ Spock’s voice murmured in his mind though their lips had not yet parted. _It was a most pleasant surprise._ Leonard sensed that Spock, too, felt a little shy to be kissing someone he had hardly exchanged two dozen words with before today. 

The honesty and sweetness they had shared sufficed for the moment, so they parted by mutual assent, withdrawing to regain composure. Spock’s fingers trailed away last, the warm hum of his mind evaporating as gently as it had come.

“I may have been mistaken about you,” McCoy confessed. Spock’s eyes danced, and Leonard remembered the silvery caress of the Vulcan’s amusement. 

“Our minds are quite compatible, Leonard.” Spock hesitated, his gaze soft and warm. “I believe cultivating a friendship… or preferably more… could prove quite rewarding.”

“What about you and Jim?”

Before Spock could answer, a woman’s shout rang out. Spock stiffened, seizing Leonard and pushing him down against the bench, covering him with his own body. Phaser fire whined; McCoy gasped and struggled, but Spock held him firmly in place.

“We’ve got her!” a man shouted. 

“What the--?!” Leonard finally squirmed free of Spock’s shielding arms. Spock rose, offering his hand; Leonard bypassed it and struggled up on his own. Beyond the trees a scene of chaos was just settling; one of the same tank-like goons he’d spotted earlier was holding a struggling woman pinned on the ground, and the dark-skinned lady Leonard had flirted with next to his office was running toward the scene, babbling rapidly into a communicator. As Leonard watched, the three of them sparkled away.

“You used me as bait?” Leonard drew himself upright, outraged. “You used me to trap one of my patients! Who the hell was she?” 

“It was not my primary intention to use you as bait. The captive is called Kalara, a participant in the raid on Yorktown several days ago. You have been under guard since Jim learned she had sought your services.” 

Leonard scowled. “Not your primary intention, huh? I’m not in the habit of turning in my patients, damn it. Why didn’t you tell me about this? ....Who the hell _are_ you? _What_ the hell are you? Station security?”

Spock looked about as unhappy as it was possible to look without changing expression. “I am sorry, Leonard. I cannot yet tell you, and I must ask you to be discreet. The timing of this event is exceptionally unfortunate.”

“I’ll say.” Leonard scowled. “I don’t take kindly to being made a catspaw, Spock. I’ve got to get back to the office. Your hand’s fine. Don’t bother stopping by for your appointment.” He stalked off, noticing that a couple of the big beefy goons split away from the rest to follow him. Well, wasn’t that just _peachy._


	6. Chapter 6

McCoy returned to work and treated the rest of his patients that day, but he had to work hard at keeping himself civil-- he was more than usually grouchy and ruthlessly quashed his impulses to be rude to the staff, too. It wasn’t their fault.

“Date didn’t go well?” Maria looked worried, laying her gloved hand over his, stopping him from making unnecessary notes on his PADD. Spock’s empty appointment time was nearly over and McCoy was avoiding his office; he couldn’t stand to see the bouquet waiting on his desk. 

“It was a setup,” he told her bitterly. “Those two played me to get at that patient who came in, the one with the burns. They’re some kind of undercover agents or something. They got what they were after, so I don’t think we’ll be seeing them again.”

Her face crumpled just a little, eyes going liquid with sympathy. He glowered at her. “Don’t give me that damn puppy-dog look.”

“I won’t, Leonard.” She straightened her shoulders, eyes snapping with determination, and she didn’t mention it again. However, the vase of magnolia blossoms and the remains of the praline candy vanished conveniently from sight without him having to do anything about them himself. That was a relief.

Leonard dreaded going home that night, but aside from the inevitable guards trailing at his heels he didn’t find anyone waiting at his door, so he hastily let himself in, glad to shut out the world. Tonight it was just gonna be him and his old friend Jack Daniels. Tomorrow the guards would probably be gone like they’d never been there to start with, and then he could start putting it all behind him.

It ought to be easy. He’d barely known either man, and it had only been a day or three. It was just Valentine’s Day getting him down-- the inevitable pressure not to be alone, the feeling you’d failed if you were, the certainty that he’d failed Jocelyn and especially Joanna.

And the woman, Kalara-- he’d failed her too. Damn it, he should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut. So what if she was a criminal-- she had the same right to medical care as anybody else, and getting it shouldn’t have cost her freedom. 

He poured himself two fingers and slumped in his favorite chair, studying the bead in the amber liquor. It had felt too damn good melding with Spock. That must’ve just been the euphoria of unaccustomed telepathic contact. And the kisses had been sweet too, and the flirting with Jim-- it had been a long time since he’d let anyone close enough for that. 

It was going to be even longer before he let somebody fuck him over again.

With a humorless grimace nowhere near a smile, Leonard knocked back the whiskey in one gulp.

On impulse, he got up and went to the refrigerator, tossing the rest of Jim’s melon into the recycler. There. That would be the last of their interference in his peace.

*****

Leonard woke up with a thumping hangover, bleary eyes, and the taste of barnyard wool on his tongue. He groaned and hoisted himself up to rehydrate. The mirror glared back at him, looking like hot shitty death, but he was resolved to put the events of the past few days behind him.

He sat down with a tall, cold glass of juice, pressing it to his temple, and flipped on the comm terminal. The news blared, displaying security cam footage of the capture of Kalara. He was relieved to see he was barely noticeable standing on the fringe of the park with Spock, far in the background.

The anchorwoman started to summarize the entire story, as if everyone aboard the station didn’t know it by heart already. “Authorities believe this latest attempt on a Yorktown citizen’s life is directly related to the recent terrorist attack, also thwarted by the heroic efforts of Captain James T. Kirk and the crew of the USS Enterprise in apprehending Balthazar Edison, preventing the success of—“

Leonard froze, his extended hand halfway to the power switch; the words faded right out of his brain. Behind the reporter flashed a publicity photo of the captain in question: the same man Bones knew as Jim the chocolatier. Younger, less polished, rumpled and maybe even a little disreputable… but those bright blue eyes could not be mistaken. In the photo, Jim wore Starfleet command gold with all the assurance of an admiral despite his youth.

“--authorities are not so forthcoming on whether there is a relationship between the continued terrorist attacks and the discovery of a young stellar cartographer in an alley adjacent to the ops promenade, his body dessicated and shriveled. This discovery is the fourth of its kind in three days, and speculation includes the possible presence of a formerly unknown alien species with vampiric qualities--”

McCoy swore excessively, even by his standards. James T. Kirk had better be at that chocolate shop this morning, or there was going to be hell to pay.

*****

Hurricane Leonard Horatio McCoy made landfall on the chocolate shop shortly after nine and found Jim bending over a Deltan child, handing him a chocolate rabbit from a pastel woven basket with shredded green cellophane in it-- displaying utter disregard for the inappropriateness of expecting alien cultures to respect or even understand human religious holidays.

“I thought you might drop by.” Jim gave him a rueful glance. “Can it wait while I ring these people up?”

McCoy’s head of steam didn’t cool off any as he watched Kirk play his role to the hilt. He folded his arms over his chest and scowled, waiting until Kirk finished with the customers and pulled off his apron.

“I’ll be back later, Jack,” Jim called to the manager, who nodded and waved. Presumably the man knew damn well who he was dealing with.

The two of them started walking aimlessly down the street, and Bones couldn’t stand the silence, so he broke it. “I saw the news this morning. It was all about some hotshot Starfleet captain saving the Yorktown and not knowing when to quit. Evidently he thinks he’s a big damn hero; he’s still going after saboteurs and bio-terrorists without regard for anybody who gets in his way.”

“Yeah, undercover Starfleet captains can get pretty persistent.” Kirk gave him a sidelong, rueful grin. “They weren’t supposed to broadcast his picture, you know. It makes it a lot harder for him to get his job done.”

“I can sympathize,” McCoy drawled, sarcastic. “It makes it hard for me to do mine when my patients realize they’re gonna get in trouble with the law if they seek treatment.”

Kirk sighed. “There’s still a saboteur on the loose killing innocent people, Bones, and the chase can’t stop till he’s been neutralized.”

“I get that. But I don’t appreciate being manipulated so I can be used to locate my patients for arrest. I gave a fucking oath, Jim. Patients ought to feel safe coming to me for treatment.”

“Even if the patients you heal go out killing others?” Jim’s voice was flat.

Leonard sighed. “The choices of the people I treat aren’t my responsibility. Providing medical care to anyone who needs it _is_. You should’ve at least told me, instead of making me your patsy.” _Instead of double-teaming me with a goddamned two-man seduction. Fucking hell, what a shitty thing to do._ He felt sick to his stomach. “I can’t believe I fell for it. I believed a _Vulcan_ wanted me? I must have been out of my goddamned mind.” 

McCoy was tired of walking, tired of the whole damned awkward scene, so he stopped short as they passed a site-to-site, addressing Kirk sharply. “It won’t work again. Take your pointy-eared accomplice and your lousy guards-- they’re about as inconspicuous as an advanced case of Tellarine facial warts-- and get the hell out of my business. I’m neither a pawn nor a puppet for Starfleet. Don’t fuck with me, _captain._ ” He leveled his best scowl on Kirk.

“Damn it, Bones, they’re aware of you now. At least--”

Ignoring the man’s protest, he hit the controls and sent himself off to the same coordinates as the last occupant, not much caring where the transporter would take him as long as it took him away from James Tiberius Kirk.

*****

The guards, at least, were gone when Leonard materialized in a wide promenade on one of the equatorial arcs. He hit the privacy button so Kirk couldn’t follow him-- not without going to ops and pulling rank to get a look at the records. He stepped out of the booth and tried to orient himself. This wasn’t a place he’d ever been before; he tended to avoid the perimeter of the station, but he was nearly as close to it now as civilians were ever allowed to get.

On one side of the promenade he could see back toward the center. On the other, the glimmer of the force shield was the only thing between himself and the black of space. Not that it wouldn’t have been equally true deeper inside the center of the station, but the atmosphere gave at least an illusion of protection, one which was not present here. He could still remember the fiery splash of drone ships erupting outside the fragile corona of the shielding, the explosions merging, a horrible magma-bright glow picking out everything on the station in hellish detail as fire encompassed the sphere.

He still had nightmares about it sometimes-- the outer membrane bursting under the onslaught, just as fragile and delicate as the iridescent soap bubbles he and his sister used to blow through sticky plastic wands back in Georgia on bright summer days. Even if the buildings activated their pressure seals, a breach of the external membrane would result in immediate decompression of all ‘outdoors’ areas inside Yorktown, with thousands of unlucky people sucked into the black void, their bodies puffing to twice normal size, some of their lungs exploding as they foolishly tried to hold onto a lungful of breath, merciful unconsciousness and death providing relief only after several agonizing seconds….

McCoy shuddered. He should’ve stayed on Earth or at least found a planet to practice on; living in this place was suicidally insane, no matter how good the money was.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, distorting the scowl as he tried to compose himself. Yeah, it was past time to get the hell off this death-trap. He liked Maria and relished the challenge of diagnosing and treating all the varied races he got to see on the station… but this was the last straw.

Motion at the far end of the promenade caught Leonard’s eye; it was the first evidence of others present he’d seen since transporting in. Maybe it was the last person who beamed here; the area was obviously not a popular one. 

He got up and walked toward it, curious; nothing was visible now, but something about the flutter piqued his curiosity. It hadn’t looked natural, like someone was waving for attention or in dist--

Spotting a crumpled form lying on the floor plating, McCoy broke into a run. 

The withered, emaciated form was a familiar symptom set this time, and McCoy swore as dazed, listless eyes blinked up at him. So far away from the site-to-site and his medical equipment, there was little he could do.

“Who did this to you?”

The man-- impossible to guess his age; he looked mummified-- brought one trembling arm up and gestured farther along the station’s arm to an area where crates of supplies and unfinished deck plating indicated repairs or new construction in process. McCoy spied a running figure slipping behind a pylon.

“I’ll get that sonofabitch,” he vowed, fumbling at his pocket for the emergency knockout hypo he always carried; there was enough sedative in there to fell a 115-kg. Klingon. “You just lie here and be still till I get back.” _As if the man could do anything else._


	7. Chapter 7

McCoy ran toward the pylon, but nearly stumbled; the farther he ran, the heavier his legs became until he felt like he was running through congealing tar. Apparently the artificial gravity regulator wasn’t engaged here, and centrifugal force was strongest at the station’s outer rim, increasing the G forces beyond Earth standard.

Beyond the support pylon, the promenade gave way into a series of empty hangar bays holding shuttles, drones, and maintenance vessels, currently taxed with clearing the debris field from the exploded attack drones. 

He collapsed against the pylon, gasping for air, and glared at the man fleeing through the next bay. He, too, was impeded by the high gravity, but he appeared to be doing a lot better than McCoy. His high, domed head was grayish, with crinkled skin and little or no hair; he wore a standard Yorktown tech uniform. 

As McCoy watched he stumbled over an iron reinforcement beam, injuring his leg; he tried to get back up but could not rest weight on the appendage.

“Now I’ve got you,” McCoy gasped, staggering forward, hypo in his hand. He fumbled for his tricorder with the other-- there was always the outside chance this alien was something his hypo wouldn’t work against. 

The tricorder bleeped a warning and he blinked at it; this being was in a state of severe genetic flux, just like the woman he’d treated.

“You’re another saboteur!” He stumbled to a halt. _Damn it, you’re the ones turning people into husks!_

The alien scowled, eyes narrowing, and turned; he started crawling toward McCoy, clawing toward Leonard with sharp-nailed fingers.

“Don’t touch me,” Leonard warned, scrambling backward, but whatever alien DNA the fucker had working inside him was a lot better at adapting to high-G situations than a human-- much better than McCoy, who was hampered not only by the weight of his own body but also by the hypo and the tricorder in his hands. He kicked at the man to force him back, but the being seized his ankle with savage strength, pointed nails digging into his skin.

McCoy’s vision blurred; a wash of dizziness swept over him as the being began to siphon off his energy, his bones and muscles aching fiercely, unresponsive to the desperate call of his mind as he struggled to resist.

 _I’m about to be the next mummified husk on Jim Kirk’s list,_ he realized, and he lashed out with the last of his fading strength, bringing the hypo down on the being’s arm.

The creature shuddered, mouth opening, but the energy channel between them did not close even though he spasmed and shook, spittle flying out of his open mouth to spatter on McCoy’s face. McCoy struggled to draw breath through his chattering teeth, but his vision went gray around the edges and he faded out, still with the creature’s cold, claw-like hand clenched savagely around his ankle. 

*****

Consciousness faded in slowly; McCoy became aware of a hand on his face, pressing painfully tight. He tried to struggle, but it felt as if a slab of concrete was resting on his chest, crushing him into the deck beneath. 

“Wake up, Leonard.” He knew the dark, velvety voice-- Spock. Leonard’s eyes fluttered open. Spock’s face blurred above his, fading in and out of focus. 

“You are fortunate.” Spock’s lips also formed the words McCoy heard resonating deep in his mind. “I found another victim not far from here. He did not survive.” 

Leonard blinked; half a dozen of the big guardsman thugs were swarming about, clad in red, directed by two men in gold. Bones recognized the Asian delivery man from the florist and studied the other-- a small, curly-haired young man with an accent even thicker than McCoy’s own. The dark-skinned woman he’d noticed before was there too, glaring down at the corpse with seething anger in her narrow eyes. 

“It was foolhardy to beam away from the captain and your guards, but it was wise to carry a hypodermic as a means of defense.” Spock lifted the empty tube and placed it in McCoy’s hand. He moved easily in the high gravity, his Vulcan body more accustomed to the strain. “The anesthetic dose discouraged the saboteur before he could draw enough energy to destroy you.”

Leonard struggled to sit up, so Spock hastened to support him. “Medical personnel are coming. Do not attempt to stand.”

“That thing was the vampire.”

“That word is a dramatic misnomer perpetuated by the news media, but you are essentially correct.” Spock’s comforting arms supported McCoy against the Vulcan’s strong chest. It was easier to breathe sitting up. 

“Manas is nowhere to be found, but there are fresh exhaust traces. He’s taken a vehicle to join the salvage fleet. He may locate the abronath,” the woman reported, folding her arms around herself as if the thought chilled her.

“It is unlikely he will be able to locate it. The debris field from the demolished bee ships has prevented all of our own efforts,” Spock stated.

“We can’t trust in that.” She shook her head, vehement. “What if he does find it and triggers it somewhere on Yorktown? It’s a ticking time-bomb waiting to go off. Or even if he doesn’t find it floating in space, someone else eventually will. You didn’t see it work, Spock-- I did. That thing has to be located and destroyed.”

“Calm yourself, lieutenant.” Spock sounded unruffled. “We will continue our efforts to do so.”

The way all the others avoided looking at Spock and the woman piqued McCoy’s interest; they extended the Vulcan a cautious deference she didn’t seem to share. Her sloe-eyed gaze descended briefly to survey McCoy, then rose again to meet Spock’s. She tilted her head at the Vulcan in mute challenge, her dark eyes snapping. McCoy shifted, uncomfortable. She hadn’t much liked Spock’s undercover attentions to McCoy, it seemed, and she didn’t like the way Spock was holding him now.

 _Girlfriend._ He stirred uneasily in Spock’s arms, trying to sit up on his own. _Or maybe a jealous ex._

“Be still, Leonard,” Spock said quietly. “He experienced difficulty breathing while he lay prone,” he explained to the woman. It had all the earmarks of a guilty excuse, but Spock’s protective arms never faltered.

She just folded her arms and looked away, distracted by the thump of boots approaching at a run. 

It turned out to be Kirk, putting on plenty of speed despite the high gravity. 

“Damn it, he cleared the fucking buffer after he bailed on me or I’d have been here before you ever found him.” Kirk scowled at McCoy. “What the hell got into you, chasing the killer like that? I thought you objected to pursuing the saboteurs.”

“He wasn’t my patient and I’d just seen the man he killed. I didn’t want to let him go free to kill again.”

“You don’t even have a phaser. How the hell did you survive?” Kirk fell to a crouch before them, breathing hard. 

“The doctor used a sedative hypodermic to incapacitate Manas when he was attacked,” Spock reported, never releasing McCoy, apparently assuming Leonard wasn’t capable of speaking for himself. “Fortunately it seems McCoy was not injured beyond recovery. Less optimally, Manas has taken a ship and joined the salvage fleet.”

“Damn,” Kirk muttered. “Get Yorktown to put a trace on that ship; see if they can locate it by its serial number and beam him right into the brig.” Kirk scowled. “We don’t want him hunting up the abronath.”

“Already underway, captain.” The woman straightened herself. “Unfortunately, the manifest tracking the ships occupying this bay has been tampered with. There is no record of which ship was parked here, and the process of verifying others and discovering it by process of elimination will be time-consuming.”

Kirk sighed. “Of course. Carry on, Lieutenant Uhura-- and get yourself to ops. Maybe you can zero in on some sort of anomaly in his radio transmissions.”

“Yes, sir,” she said crisply.

Jim hunkered down next to McCoy, surveying him with a speculative air. “You have an impressive turn of luck, Bones. I’m just not sure whether it’s good or bad. We’ve been after the bastard for a week and never got near him, but you scare him up first thing.” He gave McCoy an irrepressible grin and a wink. “So how badly did Manas drain him, Spock?”

McCoy sputtered, furious at the way Kirk talked right over his head, but he was weaker than he liked to admit, so the two men ignored his irritated grumbling.

“I believe he will recover shortly,” Spock said with all the weight of exactly no medical credentials behind his opinion, at least as far as McCoy was aware. 

“I recovered after brief contact with the energy drain, Commander Spock,” the delivery man said, joining the group. “The ill-effects of the short-term exposure were temporary.”

“Won’t hurt to make sure it’s the same this time.” Kirk slapped his thighs, abruptly decisive. “Let’s get Bones to Chapel and M’Benga for a checkup,” Kirk ordered. “They’ll make sure he doesn’t wither away and die on us.”

Consulting actual medical personnel? Maybe the captain had a little sense after all. McCoy grunted assent.

Spock pulled out a communicator-- _Military surplus my ass!_ \-- and gave concise directions. Transporter sparkles took them both and deposited them in a sparkling clean modern medical facility done in all possible shades of aluminum and sterile white. 

A black man and a tall, pretty blonde nurse descended on McCoy like a well-coordinated pair of vultures. Spock reluctantly relinquished him to them, rising and stepping back. The Vulcan watched, eagle-eyed, as the duo scanned McCoy and pronounced him wearied but essentially healthy, with only minor systemic damage. 

“You should be just fine after a few days’ rest and recuperation.” M’Benga turned out to be the doctor of the pair. “Here’s a padd with a replicator chip for a high-protein, high-antioxidant diet to replace the nutrients you lost.”

McCoy took the padd and scanned the recommended diet, critiquing it irritably while Chapel fussed over administering vitamin supplements and a broad-spectrum antibiotic.

They finally separated to let him rise from the table; Spock appeared at his elbow before he’d taken two steps. 

“Doctor, if you feel sufficiently recovered, Starfleet would like you to provide testimony regarding your encounter with the saboteur. May I escort you to the interview room?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“It may prove helpful in pursuing our investigation.”

“Fine,” McCoy sighed. “Lead me to it.”

The interview proved relatively painless; there was no interrogation to it at all, just a few prompting questions that helped Leonard bring up the specific details surrounding what he remembered. He felt tired when it was over, though-- a side-effect of his run-in with the damned energy vampire.

“I took the liberty of notifying your office that you would not be available for the remainder of the week,” Spock said when it was finished. “Your nurse was extremely displeased with me.”

“Pinned your ears back, did she?” Leonard couldn’t help but chuckle when Spock reflexively touched his ears to verify their normal placement. “She might be a little angry at you for toying with my affections,” he admitted. 

“My advances were all sincere,” Spock stated immediately. “Leonard, my quarters are at hand. You appear fatigued. Perhaps you would care to accompany me there to rest.”

“No damn hanky-panky,” McCoy warned him, but Spock was right; he was exhausted-- so much that he didn’t resist either the offer or the supportive arm Spock offered. 

The Vulcan’s quarters were distant enough that they had to be reached by transport, but Spock was able to beam them straight into his living room, a distinct improvement over the site-to-site’s scattered stations, which would have left McCoy walking several hundred yards to reach his own apartment. 

McCoy sank onto Spock’s upholstered couch, staring around. The rooms were spartan, absolutely undecorated except for a nondescript suite of furniture that probably came with the place, but Spock kept the lights pleasantly low and the temperature felt quite warm. 

The couch was surprisingly soft and comfortable, inviting Leonard to lie back and rest, so he muttered “to hell with it” and let himself recline, kicking his shoes off before putting his feet up.

He could hear Spock puttering around in another room, concealed from sight behind a diamond-hatched screen; the Vulcan did not return right away, and after a while Leonard dozed off, still waiting for him to emerge.


	8. Chapter 8

Leonard awoke to the soft hum of voices in the kitchen and found a glass of iced tea waiting for him on the coffee table, sweating cool drops of condensed moisture onto its coaster. He tasted it-- sweet, not quite the way he’d have made it but close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades-- before he sat up and drank. The second voice sounded like Kirk, intense tones muted just enough so McCoy couldn’t make out words. 

A box had been left on the table next to the tea: simple brushed aluminum with a Starfleet emblem and the words “Property of Ambassador Spock” engraved on the lid. It seemed to have been brought while Leonard slept and left within reach-- an invitation for him to investigate.

He hesitated, glancing at the kitchen. Ambassador Spock? But the Asian man had called him “Commander.” Interesting.

McCoy touched the lid of the box, which felt cool despite the desert-warm ambient temperature in the room. Cautiously lifting the lid, he found a square of red cloth folded beneath, embroidered with Vulcan characters, and a variety of oddments tucked away. A memory box-- strangely sentimental for a member of a species that prided itself on logic and the elimination of emotion.

Curious, he opened a holographic picture display case and found himself transfixed by the image inside, a posed photograph of seven people in unfamiliar Starfleet uniforms. The combination piqued his interest: a Vulcan with several humans, among them an Asian man and a black woman. They were well into their middle-age years, but if he squinted….

He shook his head, baffled. Surely not.

“I see you’ve discovered the picture.” Jim’s soft voice interrupted his musings, and McCoy shied a little, feeling guilty for getting caught snooping. “Spock and I wanted you to see it.”

“Is this Spock’s father or something?” McCoy’s thumb brushed over the Vulcan male depicted on the left of the screen.

“Or something.” Jim came over and sat down next to him, gazing down at the picture. “That’s Ambassador Spock.”

McCoy frowned, puzzled. “His brother, then?”

“Himself. From another timeline. That’s the equivalent of me.” Kirk’s fingertip brushed the man sitting in the center seat, making the pixels distort. “Sometimes peculiar things happen when we start getting involved with singularities. We’ve learned the space-time continuum is evidently a multiverse based on divergent focal events.”

“Like Terry Pratchett’s ‘trousers of time’?” Leonard chuckled to himself, disbelieving. “So this is the man we saw earlier-- Sulu. And this is Lieutenant Uhura.” The names came trickling back from his short-term memory.

“Exactly. That crew went down a different leg of the trousers than ours.” Kirk pointed to another man. “That’s Pavel Chekov-- ours is blond and curly-haired. That’s Montgomery Scott, the ship’s chief engineer.”

“Who’s this?” McCoy touched the last image when Kirk paused: a slim, worn man with blue eyes and a somber expression. 

Kirk hesitated. “That’s Commander and Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy.”

“But I’m not even enlisted--” He stumbled to a halt, staring at the image. “You’re pulling my leg. We don’t look anything alike.”

“Neither does Chekov. My double’s eyes are hazel instead of blue. That Spock’s taller than ours.” Kirk regarded him steadily; McCoy resisted the urge to look up and meet his gaze to verify the bright, bright blue he knew was waiting there. 

“They were the crew of the USS Enterprise,” Kirk said softly. “They became quite a close family.”

Enterprise? McCoy’s mind conjured images from the news holos-- a proud silver ship turned to twisted rubble. The hull of the saucer devastated and burning on the surface of some planet inside the nebula. A hologrammatic reconstruction of the drones’ attack brutally dismembering her and leaving her adrift. 

“Spock and I both saw your counterpart in the ambassador’s mind during melds,” Kirk explained. “We wondered where you were in this timeline-- until you accidentally strolled into the shop where Spock was working undercover.”

It explained a lot about why they’d come on so strong. McCoy suddenly became aware of Spock hovering silently in the kitchen doorway. 

“That man isn’t me.” He set the picture down and closed the box, taking care not to damage the treasured items inside. 

“We aren’t quite the same as our counterparts.” Jim gave him a lopsided smile. “But apparently we’re close enough.” 

“So what do you want from me?” McCoy said slowly. “You’ve both been coming on to me like a house on fire. Were the three of them lovers?”

Spock stepped up behind Jim, resting his fingertips lightly on Kirk’s shoulder as they gazed at him warmly-- answer enough. They regarded Leonard as he chewed on the new information, trying to force it through his unwilling brain. 

He shook his head. “This is crazy. I don’t even know you two.”

“So we start fresh and see how it goes,” Jim said. “I’m James Kirk, captain of the Enterprise-- soon to be captain of the second starship by that name, which is currently under construction in drydock. This is my first officer, Mr. Spock. Our chief surgeon, Dr. Puri, has elected not to return to the ship when she’s recommissioned, so we’re looking for a new chief medical officer. We’ve reviewed your credentials, and we hope you’ll be interested in the position.”

“You want me to agree to join the military and work for you on one of those flying deathtraps.” Leonard marveled at the sheer chutzpah of it-- even more insane than expecting him to jump headlong into a threesome with two men he barely knew. 

“Starfleet’s not precisely military,” Kirk disagreed mildly. “And my ship isn’t a deathtrap.”

“I saw the reconstruction of the drone attack on Enterprise,” McCoy disagreed. “And I’m aware of the ongoing corpse retrieval efforts. There are so many bodies they brought civilian doctors in to conduct some of the autopsies and fill out death certificates. The exams I conducted all involved explosive decompression.”

Kirk winced and looked to Spock for help. “That attack was the exception, not the rule.”

“I heard about the Narada incident and the rogue admiral with his dreadnaught, too.”

Kirk wilted a little, looking guilty. “It was the exception because we usually win.”

“We will win this time,” Spock protested, calm. “Though perhaps at a greater cost than some of our encounters.” 

“You can help us win.” Kirk handed McCoy a padd. “This contains information on the abronath, the relic Manas is after.”

Leonard watched as a small animated hexagon was placed inside a ring and sank into a metallic pool. It then broke down into a small particulate cloud and dispersed as Spock explained, “The abronath is made of a radioactive metal that, when activated, subatomically transmutes into the Weber Particle, known as Ab 451 on the periodic table. It then disperses, assimilating gas molecules on contact and reducing carbon-based organisms to inorganic waste matter. After activation, Ab 451 can consume any number of closed ecosystems existing in the same atmosphere in a matter of hours.”

“He means it’s a bio-weapon that could kill everyone on Yorktown,” Kirk supplied helpfully. “The leader of the saboteurs, a man named Krall, actually activated that thing inside the main ventilation system during the drone attack. I vented Krall into space before the particles dispersed into the station, but the abronath was lost in the process. If Manas finds it before we do, we may all wind up as inorganic dust motes.” 

McCoy felt his stomach drain right into his toes. “There’s no way to neutralize Ab 451?” 

“Not if you don’t have the control ring.” Kirk shrugged apologetically. “We don’t know what sort of metal it’s made up of, so we can’t scan for it or duplicate its effects. Just to complicate things, the Weber particles created when Krall activated the device are still dispersed, drifting in space. Evidence suggests turning the control ring counterclockwise would attract the particles back to the ring and reduce them to Ab 452, the inert form of the abronath.” 

McCoy winced. “You say you’re hunting that thing in the debris field? If some idiot brings one of those particles back inside Yorktown, maybe on a space suit or attached to the hull of a salvage vessel--”

“Ab 451 is easily detected and an isolation field has been created outside the station to contain the individual particles that have been retrieved. A strict decontamination procedure is in place,” Spock assured him.

Kirk sat quietly, his eyes on his laced fingers, apparently having contributed all he wanted to the conversation. McCoy realized he was brooding-- probably over the loss of so many crewmen in the drone attack. Spock’s hand rested on his shoulder, thumb stroking him in comforting arcs. 

“Sorry to rub your face in it.” McCoy put his empty glass back on the coaster. “I’m not trying to imply the loss was your fault. It’s just… the job offer comes as a shock and the position involves a lot of risk.”

“Take your time to think it over.” Kirk leaned slightly toward Spock, sighing as he relaxed. “It’ll be months yet before the new ship is ready for a shakedown.” Spock centered himself behind Kirk, rubbing the man’s shoulders and making Kirk groan, his chin sagging toward his chest. 

McCoy regarded the ice cubes slowly melting in his glass. The people in that picture hadn’t been young; whatever else you might say about the Enterprise crew, they were apparently an effective, successful team-- no, _family._

The very word gave him a pang in his chest and turned his thoughts inevitably to Jocelyn and Joanna. His jaw tightened until he could hear his teeth grind. Family was something he was damned short on right now, unless you counted Maria, who very reasonably went home every night to her doting boyfriend Bradley and promptly forgot about Leonard until 9:00 AM the next morning.

He glanced at Spock bending over Kirk, absorbed in easing his tension. McCoy swallowed hard, moved by the gentleness and the trust visible in the way they touched. Such affection wasn’t something he’d have expected to see from a Vulcan. Neither would he have anticipated finding it between a captain and his first officer. The unselfconscious intimacy of it made Leonard’s heart ache, and his throat closed with longing. 

If he felt unsure about taking them up on their offers, he needed to remember they they knew him no better than he knew them. _God, I’d just fuck it up._ But… the photograph made a powerful argument that he might not.

“I should go home,” he said, deliberately averting his eyes from the loving scene in front of him. “It looks like I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

“I’d rather you weren’t alone. Let me set a pair of guards outside your quarters.” Kirk cracked one eye open and gazed at him soberly. 

“No more thugs.” McCoy shook his head, decisive. “I can’t live with some towering muscle-brain staring through my kitchen window.”

Kirk sighed. “Have it your way.” He arched his back against Spock’s kneading fingers. “I’ll have you beamed home.” Spock didn’t seem inclined to stop any time soon.

“No, I’d rather walk.” McCoy stuffed his feet into his shoes and took off, leaving them to it.

He still felt a little light-headed, particularly if he looked up and saw the concourses soaring upside-down overhead, so he kept his eyes on his toes and moved without haste, locating a site-to-site and sending himself home. His brain whirled fruitlessly-- a random repeating cascade of facts, fears, and uncertainty. Information overload plus exhaustion equaled mental gridlock. 

He let himself in, exhausted, and went to slump down on his bed without even putting on pajamas but stopped in the doorway. His window was open-- like he left it every day, but this time something had entered his room through it.

The being acted a lot like a dog, curled up comfortably at the foot of his bed-- but it looked more like a dog would have looked if you crossed it with a horned lizard. It was about the size of a beagle but a lot more heavily muscled. Its skin was bald as an egg, and bony protrusions formed a dangerous-looking backward-swept frill of armor atop its head, with a prickly array of protective horns around its face, including two long, vicious horns on its chin. It lay comfortably nestled on a folded blanket, its eyes shut.

McCoy stared at it, considering whether to laugh hysterically or call for help. Given the events of the past week, he should probably choose the latter.

The creature lifted its head, blinking sleepily at him. It rolled over on its side, exposing its vulnerable belly, and shut its eyes again, just like a dog. He pulled out his medical tricorder and scanned the thing. Aside from its alien physiology, there didn’t seem to be any troubling anomalies. It sported vicious claws and sharp fangs in addition to the bony frill; obviously it would be damned good at digging-- or shredding its enemies-- but it didn’t seem hostile and hadn’t done any damage to the room.

McCoy shrugged and went to fetch the thing a dish of water and some bread. He was too tired to wonder where it came from or why. He just set the food down and shut the door, engaging the privacy seal. When it finished resting, it’d probably go right back out the same way it came in. If it didn’t, he’d deal with it tomorrow.

McCoy bedded down on his own couch and fell asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.


	9. Chapter 9

McCoy woke up to a crick in his neck and the sound of a door buzzer. Investigating, he found Spock waiting there with a shopping bag dangling from his arm. _No guards, huh?_ McCoy grumbled a little and let him in.

“Good morning, Leonard. I apologize for the intrusion, but I wanted to ascertain whether there were lingering effects from your encounter with Manas.” Spock set the bag down on the kitchen counter. “I am gratified to see you appear adequately rested.” He began investigating the contents of Leonard’s cupboard. “I also wish to apologize for having concealed the truth of my profession and activities from you.”

“Is cooking for new prospects a standard part of the Starfleet recruitment manual?” Bones joked, peering into the bag. There were fresh berries, yogurt, and some oats inside. 

“I have learned the practice is effective in creating positive accord between companions and romantic partners,” Spock said, very matter-of-fact. 

McCoy blinked. “Doesn’t Starfleet have some sort of anti-fraternization rule?”

“It is merely a guideline.” Spock began his preparations with great serenity. 

“I’d better grab a shower.” McCoy evaded his own line of questioning. He had exerted himself yesterday, and he’d never changed into new clothes, so he probably smelled. 

When he came out, he discovered Spock had let the dog-thing out of the bedroom; it sat perched on the counter, watching the breakfast preparations with great intensity. 

“Oh, uh.” McCoy dithered a little. “I found that waiting for me when I got home last night. I think it came in through my window and wanted a nap.”

Spock hummed unconcerned acknowledgment. “He is a Teenax; since you declined a guard, Jim and I hoped you would find his companionship beneficial. His name is Kevin.” Spock had the good grace to look faintly sheepish. “They are a somewhat excitable species but can make loyal and fierce protectors.” He poured oats into boiling water and added spices, then covered the pot. “His attentions toward you are benign.” Spock touched the little creature, scratching delicately just behind its bony frill. “I sense no hostility. He found your hospitality most acceptable.”

Bones raised an eyebrow. Message received-- Jim Kirk wasn’t the sort who’d give up until he got his way. “Nnnnff,” he grunted and grabbed a cup of coffee from the replicator.

The Teenax whined and growled in an ecstatic soprano, arching itself against Spock’s fingers exactly the way Kirk had done, until McCoy-- mood lightened by proper application of caffeine-- finally laughed. “I’m just glad it’s not going to eat me or destroy the place.” He offered it a piece of bread. Kevin snapped up the food, fortunately leaving McCoy in possession of all his fingers.

They ate oatmeal and yogurt with fresh berries and toast-- even the Teenax received a portion, which it devoured tidily, licking the food straight out of the bowl-- before Spock got down to business.

“Now that we have flushed Manas from hiding, Jim and I have judged it impractical to pursue our undercover activities,” Spock reported, his expression placid. “With Kalara in captivity and Manas having left the station, there should be no more mysterious deaths or disappearances for us to track. Manas will find it difficult to return unobserved, and if he does, the resumption of his predatory habits will reveal his presence.”

McCoy nodded soberly. “But he’ll have to eat sometime.”

“As will Kalara. We are providing her with traditional human means of sustenance. Efforts are underway to see if her original human genome can be restored. Perhaps you would care to assist in that pursuit.” Spock pushed a padd over the table toward McCoy. “We believe she was originally a human called Jessica Wolff.” 

“My examination indicated a human base for her mutation,” McCoy agreed, studying Wolff’s file. “She’s unstable enough that you might be able to get her to revert.”

“The instability is related to predation. The technology Krall discovered on Altamid enabled virtual immortality, but it came at a price. During transfer, the user’s genetic makeup is partly subsumed by the genome of the prey organism, whatever that may be. Kalara’s mutation indicates she had consumed numerous distinct species. Her appearance had altered from the time of Jim’s initial contact with her, rendering her additionally difficult to locate.”

“So if you gave her humans to eat, she’d turn human again.”

“We would prefer to avoid that solution, as I am sure you understand,” Spock said very dryly. “We have removed the mechanical device that enabled her predation on others.” 

“I’d like a look at it.”

“That can be arranged.” Spock rose and began placing their dishes in the cleanser. 

Spock took McCoy to the central spire, where the device had been placed in a laboratory. The energy drain device turned out to be several fine wires that slipped over the hand like a gauntlet. 

“Can I have a square of synth-skin, like that stuff I used on your hand?” McCoy requested. He introduced it into the sterile containment area, then used robotic safety gloves to bring the skin and the gauntlets together. 

The wires began to seethe and writhe, attempting to initiate a transfer process. Without having a host to transfer the extracted organic material into, they began to render the sheet of synthetic skin into a bubbling mass of destructured protoplasm that McCoy found absolutely horrifying, especially since he’d experienced the procedure himself. In a strange way, the wires themselves seemed alive and possibly semi-intelligent. He and Spock monitored the process, scanning with several instruments and recording data.

“We need to scan the--”

“--Mitochondria, yes,” Spock said without looking up from his electron microscope. “For oxidative damage of mtDNA and concomitant cellular decay.”

“Exactly.” They were quiet for a time, performing more tests. Finally McCoy stretched and cracked his back. 

“This is some serious high-tech gadgetry made by somebody who didn’t give a damn about moral consequences.” Leonard reached down to scratch the little Teenax, who had trailed along with them. Kevin was well-mannered enough that nobody at the ops center had challenged his presence. “The tissue from that skin sample is being broken down, but it’s not being damaged in any other significant way. I think it’s possible to restore Kalara’s human genome by plugging her into cloned human tissue cultures-- the kind we use in the lab to grow replacement organs-- or better yet, give her the organs themselves. My scans indicated the area with the least amount of mutation was her brain; wherever those wires transmit a victim’s DNA, it’s not there. So if she’s not drawing on brain function, she should safely be able to absorb human DNA from cloned organs and tissue.”

Spock nodded approval. “I had thoughts in that direction as well, but I have not had the opportunity to scan her personally, as you did.” He replaced the gauntlet in its security container and locked it away in a wall-vault, engaging the combination lock. 

“My theory should be tested under controlled conditions-- starting with something small that won’t knock her off her ass if I’m wrong. The gauntlet apparently couldn’t convert the synthetic skin into another tissue type, so she may wind up needing exposure to the equivalent of an entire human body _sans_ brain-- or probably more than one. Ethically that’s pretty dodgy, and if it gets done, the anti-cloning lobby will have a field day when they find out.” 

Leonard started typing, outlining an experimental recovery protocol, absently scratching the little Teenax with his foot. “I’d recommend waiting to do this until after her trial, if it’s done at all. The jury will have a lot easier time condemning a mutant than a soft, squishy human girl. They’ll believe in what happened a lot more easily if they can still see it.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

McCoy turned to see Kirk leaning against the doorframe, smiling indulgently at them. “You two work well together.”

McCoy flushed under the captain’s knowing scrutiny. 

“Enough for one day, Spock. He’s still recuperating. I officially pronounce you off duty.” Jim swooped in and kissed Spock soundly, then brightened as he spotted the Teenax under the table. “Hey, look at you.” He bent down to pet the thing, which growled agreeably when he scratched behind its frill. “You’re quite a nudist, aren’t you?”

McCoy rolled his eyes to heaven; Kirk was practically cooing at the little critter. His stomach rumbled almost as loudly as the Teenax, and he was startled to realize it was after two. 

“Let’s go grab a sandwich.” Kirk straightened, grinning, and for a second McCoy thought he was going to dive in for the same kind of quick kiss he’d just snitched from Spock. McCoy almost felt disappointed when the man didn’t.

“Where did you have in mind?” McCoy straightened, grimacing. 

“I thought we might--”

“Captain!” Lieutenant Uhura burst in at a run. “I couldn’t raise your comm, sir.” She skidded to a halt, gasping for breath. “We’ve isolated the ID number of Manas’s vessel. He’s no longer with the recovery fleet. Chekov scanned again for Ab 451 and all the particulate traces have vanished from space surrounding the Yorktown except for the particles in the decontamination containment chamber.”

“Shit.” Kirk’s good mood evaporated instantly. “He’s got the abronath. Duty calls after all.”

A mass exodus ensued and McCoy joined it, hanging back when they arrived in the main theater at ops. 

“We’ve located Manas’s wessel, sir.” The young curly-haired man from the previous day was back, speaking in a thick Russian accent. “It is docked in the outer ring. Four people were found drained nearby.”

The kid looked even more like a puppydog than the Teenax at McCoy’s feet. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two, if that. McCoy shook his head in disbelief. 

“What race were the victims?” Spock inquired.

“Human.” 

“Captain, based on the precedents you observed in Balthazar Edison, we can expect substantial alteration to Manas’s appearance.” Spock linked his hands behind his back. “It is likely he will now pass among humans without significant difficulty.”

Kirk quickly looked over his shoulder, and finding McCoy present, relaxed slightly. “Bones-- Doctor. You seem to feel well enough. Would you mind having a look at the victims?”

McCoy sighed, sensing the thin end of a substantial wedge slotting itself neatly between himself and whatever he’d expected out of life when he woke up just yesterday. “You’re a force of nature, aren’t you? Not used to not getting whatever you want.” His eyes locked with Kirk’s, and the corner of Kirk’s mouth lifted ever so slightly in response to whatever he saw on Leonard’s face. “Yes, I’ll examine your victims.”

“Lieutenant Hendorff, go with Dr. McCoy,” Kirk ordered, never looking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short note on the word "Teenax" and my usage choices in this story: 
> 
> According to Memory Alpha, the planet of Lt. Kevin's origin is called "Teenax." In canon, its collective inhabitants are called the "Teenaxi." This implies that the terminal "i" is the grammatical means of making the species name plural, which would also imply that a single member of the species is referred to as a "Teenax." I have seen this usage; I have also seen an individual from Teenax called a "Teenaxian." However, that doesn't make sense to me-- as it adds the "i" without giving it a function. Wouldn't it just be a "Teenaxan?" Also, the logical plural of "Teenaxian" would be "Teenaxians" rather than "Teenaxi," which has actually been used in movie canon. So I have chosen to use "Teenaxi" as my plural and "Teenax" as my singular, an agonizing and carefully-reasoned deliberative process that I suspect exactly nobody is interested in but me.
> 
> I also want to seize this moment to apologize for the excessive amounts of scientific jargon and exposition of various scientific information surrounding _Beyond_ canon that I have included in both this and the previous chapter. I'll try not to get swept away again. :p


	10. Chapter 10

As McCoy departed with Hendorff and Kevin, Kirk started barking orders. “Chekov, double the guard on access to the ventilation system. Alert all security to the possibility of an unidentified saboteur. We’ll do an airlock quarantine if we have to; have an announcement ready, but call it a drill. We don’t want a panic on our hands. Uhura, alert Admiral Paris. Sulu, you get to the--”

A door slid down, drowning out Kirk’s voice, and McCoy fell in at Hendorff’s heels. 

They transported to the docking bay together, Hendorff holding his phaser at the ready. Half a dozen techs had secured the area by lowering various blast doors. They swarmed about on the little ship, looking for traces of Manas.

“That’s no salvage ship,” Hendorff muttered. “That’s a warp-capable shuttle. He could’ve gone anywhere he wanted.”

McCoy nodded absently, only half-listening. The corpses were obviously the work of the same device McCoy had just studied: shriveled, desiccated remains with big, sunken, staring eyes-- their essence and vitality extracted and injected into Manas. Leonard shuddered, picturing himself among their lifeless ranks. He wouldn’t have appreciated the vestiges of life that process would’ve granted his DNA and cellular mitochondria.

“This is Manas’s work, all right. They’re just husks.” He scanned each body in turn. All the men had been grasped and drained-- one by the forearm, others by the shoulder or head. All wore the dark grey coveralls of Yorktown staff and the red piping indicating they worked in ops. 

Kevin wandered between the corpses, inspecting them and growling softly to himself-- or maybe to Hendorff; the two seemed familiar with one another. Hendorff kept his phaser drawn despite the techs fluttering around. McCoy wasn’t sure what good the hand-weapon could do against the abronath, but it might knock Manas down if he was still hungry enough to feed. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” McCoy muttered to himself, scowling at the little craft. If he were Manas, he’d have used his stolen ship to get the hell out of here and start somewhere new. Of course he wasn’t a homicidal maniac set on showing everybody who was boss by kicking the entire Federation’s ass right back to the stone age. No, if McCoy were a serial killer, he’d want to live quietly. Nothing like Krall. 

Of course… Manas wasn’t Krall, either. McCoy frowned. _If I were Manas, what would I want badly enough to come back here and risk my life to get?_

He pondered over the information he’d studied earlier. Edison/Krall and his crew had been stranded on Altamid by a wormhole. They’d discovered the planet’s subterranean drone society and taken over the tech. Only three had survived over the long-term-- Krall, Manas, and Kalara. The others had, presumably, refused to go along with Krall’s plans for galactic domination and had… what? Been abandoned to die of natural causes? ….Been eaten?

Maybe. But a few of them had gone along for the ride, maybe more than just three. Supremely loyal to their captain, they’d been lost one by one as they had lured in hapless starships to provide sustenance for themselves, leaving only the most clever, the most dangerous… the most loyal.

McCoy held his breath, scowling. Supreme loyalty to a captain…. He pictured the Enterprise crew, all of them jumping whenever Kirk thought ‘frog.’ If you loved your captain enough to put on one of those wire gloves and start sucking people dry for him, you might want to complete his master plan… but even more than that, you’d want to avenge his death.

McCoy let himself start breathing again, sensing truth hovering just under his fingertips; he wandered away from the group, his mind racing furiously, and leaned against a wide transparent aluminum window without even seeing what lay beyond. _If your beloved captain was dead and gone, and the man who’d done away with him was back in Yorktown, about to get a new ship, still with the loyal core of his crew at his command, how would you get your revenge? By destroying that ship, of course; by killing your opponent and his crew._

McCoy’s eyes focused all of a sudden on the skeletal infrastructure slowly taking shape in the drydock bay just opposite this, the precise place Manas had chosen to make his return to Yorktown. He’d docked right next to the new Enterprise.

Kirk was on the wrong track entirely; Manas didn’t want to sabotage Yorktown at all.

McCoy’s eyes were drawn to a sleek silver umbilical tube tethering the ship to the station. It originated maybe three levels down-- easy access. 

_He’ll build the damned bio-weapon right into the ship’s infrastructure and attach it to a triggering mechanism that won’t activate till they’re far from help. Then he’ll slink off and find himself a little planet full of primitives who’ll worship him and live in fear of his superior abilities. He’ll live forever, just like a god._

“Hendorff, call Captain Kirk!” McCoy snapped, whirling around so quickly that the security guard flinched. “I’ve figured it out.”

“Hendorff to Kirk. Come in.” Hendorff tapped at his comm badge, waited, then tried again without results. “I’m sorry, doctor. We’ve been experiencing transmission difficulty today.”

“Damn it!” McCoy growled. They weren’t far behind Manas-- maybe half an hour or so. “Hendorff, don’t let Manas get back on his ship or we’ll never find him again. Keep calling for help. That bastard’s gone to sabotage the Enterprise. Kevin, come on!”

Three levels and ten minutes later, McCoy plunged into the umbilical docking port, running hard and still trying to ride the first rush of adrenaline that had propelled him after Manas without waiting for backup. _Shit, I’m out of shape._ He couldn’t afford to slow down, though; every second he delayed might mean another life lost.

Kevin bounded along in front of him, running in an exuberant zig-zag trajectory, sometimes literally bouncing off the walls. Whoever the Teenax was, nobody challenged them as they barrelled past, though they did gather a lot of wild-eyed stares. 

The corridor gave way to starship infrastructure; in places the bulkheads were open to the bay. 

McCoy slowed and slumped against a wall, gasping for breath. He didn’t have any idea where they ought to try first. 

“Here, who are you?” The man was short and ginger with a Scottish brogue; he stepped forward aggressively. “Lieutenant Kevin, who’s that?”

Kevin made a lengthy sound something between a whine and a cluck, and the man jammed his clenched fists on his hips in exasperation. “Don’t tell me. You left the universal translator in your other pants.” The man turned his attention upward and glared at McCoy. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m a doctor. I’ve been working with Jim Kirk. I have reason to believe there’s a dangerous saboteur aboard this vessel.”

“And you expect me to believe Captain Kirk sent a doctor to handle him?” The Scotsman gave McCoy a sidelong look. 

“Well, he didn’t, not exactly.” McCoy scowled. “Look, man. I believe a being known as Manas is on this ship, and he’s planning to hide the abronath device somewhere in the works. Are we going to stand here and argue about it, or will you help me find him?”

“He’s not hiding that damned thing in _my_ ship!” The man flared, thrusting his chin out. A pugnacious light gleamed in his eye. 

“Well then maybe you’ll have some idea where he might put it. Because I certainly don’t!” 

The man thought for only a second, then started to trot away; still out of breath, McCoy followed him. “He’ll probably put it in the saucer section if he’s planning to trigger it once we’re all aboard; most of the crew will congregate there. There are a couple of dozen nexus points where re-oxygenated atmospheric gas gets distributed through circulating fans. Or the turbolift shafts double as ventilation ducts. Maybe in one of those.” 

The Scotsman tapped his comm badge, giving McCoy a smug wink. “The damned Yorktown comms are for shite today, but I’ve got the ship’s comm working. Scott to Kyle. Do we have any security aboard?”

“No, sir.”

“That figures.” Scott scowled. “And no phasers either, I suppose. Be advised, we may have a dangerous saboteur aboard. Have your men work in groups and keep a plasma torch or a riveting gun in hand. If you see anyone you don’t know, stop the bugger by any means necessary.”

“We need to do a sweep or a scan,” McCoy objected to Scott’s methods. “We can’t just wander around hoping to track him by a trail of dead bodies!”

“We won’t find him by scanning for Ab 451 or 452, either, even if the ship’s sensors had been installed, which they haven’t. Too easy.” Scott considered. “Hm. Might be he’d put it by the core after all. The coils would act as a faraday cage… no scans would ever find it if he hid it there, and there’d be a thousand ways to trigger it, and it would still disperse to the crew quarters-- the ventilation system distributes ship-wide unless there’s a red alert or a decompression event.” Scott took an abrupt left that brought them to a turbolift. The walls around it were still open, and McCoy looked at the exposed support beams with dismay. The shaft’s infrastructure led down toward an area that seemed even less finished than this deck.

“Is that thing even cleared for function?”

“She’s right as rain!” Scott insisted. “There might be a few bumps along the way, but the failsafes are in place. Most of them.” He jumped in. “What are you waiting for?” Kevin hopped up on his shoulder and fixed McCoy with an expectant stare.

McCoy swore and stepped in, commending his soul to whatever deity looked after fools and engineers.


	11. Chapter 11

The turbolift set off at a stomach-churning pace, leaving Leonard clutching at the railing for balance. He was glad the walls were opaque so he couldn’t see out-- he wouldn’t have to see all that empty air screaming past as they descended through the neck toward the engine decks and shuttle bay.

The turbolift lurched hard and McCoy nearly bit his tongue. He yelped, glowering at Scott, who just looked up toward the ceiling. “We’re not in free fall,” Scott said. “I don’t think. We’d probably topple end over end if we were.”

“You’re just saying that because you wanted to see me sweat,” he accused. 

The turbolift decelerated and stopped abruptly, with a jolt that rattled McCoy’s teeth together. “So much for my enamel,” he muttered. The doors slid open, revealing a floor platform at knee-level.

“Not quite got all the bugs ironed out.” Scott set Lieutenant Kevin on the floor, then hopped up and offered Leonard a hand. 

Scott led McCoy through the engineering deck, a nightmarish warren of conduits, water pipes, and miscellaneous humming mechanical behemoths Leonard couldn’t even begin to classify. It made McCoy think of a Hieronymus Bosch painting of Hell, only with a lot more horrible machines and a lot fewer damned souls being tortured by demons. 

“We’ll never find him in here.” McCoy lifted his head and gazed around the place. “There have to be ten thousand hiding places down here.”

“You’re not wrong, but I think we can eliminate at least nine thousand of those as being unsuitable for hiding the abronath. They wouldn’t hide the chemical trace, they’d prevent or hinder its dispersal, or they couldn’t be used to trigger it satisfactorily.”

“Oh. Good. That only leaves a thousand places to check.” McCoy tapped at a pipe that seemed to be full of water. 

“Krall had comprehensive technical specs for the original Enterprise; placing the abronath in engineering may have been a contingency plan. He’d have selected a very precise location for its placement.” Scott led him through the maze at a fast trot, Kevin loping along easily beside them. “He’ll put it in the engine room; a dozen different jeffries tubes converge there, along with the plasma conduits and the electrical conduit system. Together, those systems give access points to everywhere aboard, including the nacelles.”

He might as well have been speaking Tamarian. “Ah,” McCoy said and nodded as if he understood.

“If I were him, I’d put it in the magnetic field generator. That won’t activate until we’re ready to go to warp, and by then the whole crew will be aboard and we’ll be in deep space,” Scotty said. “Everyone in Engineering would go right away, then the ventilation system would quickly distribute the particulate throughout the entire ship.” 

“Don’t you have discrete ventilation regions established throughout the ship? I hate to think I’d be breathing stray plasma radiation all the time way up in the saucer.” 

“Now listen here, laddie, with interlaced corridors and turbolift shafts, it’s not so simple as all that. And anyway, no radiation ever escapes the--”

Scott cut off with a squeak as a dark silhouette fell from above, crushing him to the deck. He looked mostly human, but not quite-- pale with a faint olive cast to his skin, his neck too thick, his head a little too streamlined, as if he’d been molded out of dough.

“Get off him!” McCoy aimed a kick at Manas, who caught his heel and twisted, sending him sprawling. A small bundle of squeaking fury hurtled over McCoy. Kevin landed square in the center of Manas’s back and latched onto his neck, snarling and snapping. 

Kevin didn’t have the mass or the leverage to break Manas’s neck, and his spirited attempts to sever the jugular vein were thwarted by the vestigial remains of a cervical ridge that had supplemented the sternocleidomastoid muscle in holding up the heavy alien skull ridges Manas had once sported. 

McCoy scrabbled on the deck, grabbing at the riveting gun Scott had dropped. Manas groped, seizing Kevin, who squealed and began to writhe. McCoy slammed the gun against Manas’s forearm and pulled the trigger; the mutant screamed, jerking his hand away as it shoved a lengthy metal cylinder through his arm right between the radius and ulna. Manas rolled away, slapping Kevin off him. The little Teenax flew through the air and struck the water pipe, collapsing motionless to the floor. Then Manas jumped up, cradling his wounded arm, and bared his teeth at McCoy before turning to flee. In his hand he held a perforated metallic disc with a glowing red center.

Scott scrambled to his knees and tried to get up. “That thing’s primed. Ouch!” He collapsed again. “It’s me ankle. Sprained or maybe broken.” 

“Contact your people. I could use a little help,” McCoy threw over his shoulder as he took off in hot pursuit, still wielding the rivet gun. Having failed to sabotage Enterprise, Manas could still attempt Krall’s master plan.

Manas was faster than McCoy, but the doctor and Kevin had managed to inflict serious injuries on the mutant; McCoy followed the glittering crimson droplets of a blood-trail. His enemy wasn’t losing enough blood to incapacitate him quickly, but it wouldn’t do him any good, either. 

Holding the rivet gun cautiously, McCoy navigated a corner and found himself entering a section of incomplete infrastructure. It looked like a bay of some sort, with a wide arched ceiling and an open end. A set of swinging doors had been half-installed at the far end of the bay; one hung from its pivot and the other lay on the floor. A shuttlecraft sat nearby, and Manas was running toward it hell-bent for leather. He scratched at the portal, then turned to the access panel.

McCoy ran forward, brandishing his gun and thumbing the control over to “hot.” The handle swiftly warmed in his hand. He had no idea how far it would shoot, but when he got within a few yards, he started firing anyway.

Manas screamed as a rivet struck him in the back of the neck, glancing off and leaving a seared spot. McCoy fired again, the round making the mutant’s coverall smoke.

“Stop... or I’ll use the abronath!” Manas whirled, grasping the ring in both hands and extending it between them like a shield. “Activate that panel.”

“Sorry, I’m not Starfleet. It won’t recognize my palmprint any faster than yours.” McCoy held out an empty hand, so Manas sidled away, watching as he laid his palm on the sensor. It flashed red and the lock remained engaged. 

Manas hissed and backed away, still waving the device. A distant hum started to swell-- a transporter. Backup? Rescue? McCoy didn’t dare hope. _Got to keep him talking._ He ignored a stirring visible out of the corner of his eye and stepped forward, making the mutant take a cautious step back. 

_How invested is he in revenge? How much does he value his own life?_ McCoy swallowed hard and ventured a gamble, taking another step. The deckplate reverberated under his feet; it wasn’t fully secured at the far end, where the floor gave way to a rough framework of duranium beams and struts jutting out into the void where the bulkheads and the hull would eventually be constructed. 

Manas glanced around before stepping back again, licking his lips-- just a little tell, but enough to betray his nerves. McCoy pressed his advantage, raising the rivet gun again. “If you trigger that thing now, you’re only going to kill the two of us. Yorktown ops will seal off this whole area and your plans will all go to waste. Give it to me and I’ll make sure you get to be human again. I already devised a treatment protocol for your friend Kalara. Nobody else has to die.”

“I can become human on my own terms,” Manas snarled, “or anything else I want. I don’t need your help.” He slid his foot back, seeking, and found a beam. Maybe he didn’t know he was out of deck or maybe he just thought Leonard wouldn’t follow him, but he eased his foot back and slid his weight onto it, as graceful as a cat. 

McCoy edged forward, brandishing the gun just to give the man something to think about. He wouldn’t want to be the one balanced on a narrow beam trying to dodge a hail of red-hot rivets. 

“Put down the abronath and come quietly,” Kirk’s voice echoed in the wide chamber, and McCoy couldn’t stop the grimace that twisted his lips. _Great. Now Manas can achieve his goal._

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but get the fuck out of here, Jim!” Leonard stepped forward, pressing Manas another step back, trying to keep distance between him and Kirk. If Manas triggered the abronath, Kirk might be able to flee before the toxins dispersed enough to reach him. He could warn the station and start the quarantine. Leonard started to slide along the beam, forcing himself to hold Manas’s eyes locked with his. _Don’t look down._

The beam shuddered-- Kirk’s footsteps on the deck plating. _Of course he ignored my suggestion._ Manas raised his empty hand as if to seize the ring and activate it; McCoy pegged him right in the biceps with another rivet, leaving a seared black welt on his coverall. The recoil of the gun nearly knocked McCoy right off the beam.

Manas hissed, faltering badly, but regained his balance by frantically flailing the injured arm.

“I’m aiming the next one right between your eyes,” McCoy warned. “Don’t do it.”

The beam started to sway, making McCoy swallow thickly as his stomach rolled over. He didn’t dare look back but he knew Jim was right behind him. _How much weight before the steel sways so much that I can’t stand upright? How much before it bends or breaks?_ His head reeled with vertigo and he teetered, nearly falling.

Manas reached a junction and sidled onto a new beam; McCoy followed him, refusing to falter. Yawning emptiness beckoned below his feet and to his left.

“Shoot him again,” Jim said softly. “Pull the trigger and don’t stop until he falls.”

“I can’t,” McCoy hissed. The whole structure was just too unstable now and the gun kicked too hard. 

“Then I need you to trust me.” Jim’s voice took on a steely note. “Do whatever I say, Bones. Don’t hesitate.”

“Damn it, Jim!” Leonard hated the sound of that. _Hated_ it. Jim reached the junction and took a different path, swinging outward, bracketing Manas between the two of them. He reached to his belt and pulled out a phaser.

“Just do it, Bones.” Jim fixed him with a clear blue gaze. “I know what I’m doing.”

Manas reached for the abronath again, threading his fingers into the ring. He bounced on the balls of his feet, making the beam sway and leering at McCoy-- daring him to fire and fall. Bones didn’t quite have the balls; Manas would probably just activate the ring anyway, falling or not.

“Jim, he’s turning it!”

“I can see that, Bones. Stop right where you are.” Jim sighted on Manas.

“Shoot!” McCoy’s voice broke, but it was too late. The center clicked into place and the central red component flared just as Jim finally fired. A cloud of black flecks like magnetized iron filings erupted from confinement with a seething hiss.

“Bones, _jump!_ ” Kirk flung himself off the beam and away from the cloud.

McCoy hesitated for a split second, then followed, swearing.

Wind roared through his ears, and more half-finished infrastructure flashed past-- somehow he didn’t manage to impact on any of the beams. Jim was falling just below him. Suddenly the vast cavern of the drydock didn’t seem anywhere near deep enough; he could see the bottom coming up like a freight train. He tried to shout for Jim, tried to curse, but the wind tore the sound from his mouth.

Then his vision sparkled, his limbs tingled, and all of a sudden a floor was under him and he struck it with a resounding crack that hurt like fuck. Jim lifted his head from not three feet away, talking to someone McCoy couldn’t see. 

“Were you able to get a lock on Manas?”

“Yes. And the abronath. We have them isolated in the pattern buffer.”

“Were you able to separate his pattern?”

“I’m afraid not, keptin. He wasn’t far enough from the ring when it triggered.” The Russian’s voice penetrated McCoy’s dazed mind, subdued but professional. “The Ab 451 had already begun to disintegrate him.”

“That’s regrettable.” Jim’s voice steeled again as he thrust himself to his knees. “Delete the buffer, Chekov. Let’s get rid of that thing once and for all.”

“Aye, keptin.”

Recovering just a little breath, McCoy began attempting to peel himself off the floor-- he hadn’t struck it at anything near terminal velocity, but the impact had been bad enough that even his _teeth_ hurt. 

“Captain.” Spock’s disembodied voice filled the room. “Is all well?”

“Yeah, Spock. Chekov worked his usual magic.” Kirk grinned and winked at McCoy. “He was flying under the ship in a construction shuttle. If Chekov couldn’t have locked on, he’d have caught us before we impacted,” Jim said casually, just as lightly as if this kind of shit happened to him every day. 

Maybe it did. McCoy shook his head, exasperated, and renewed his struggle to get up.

“You OK, Bones?” Kirk made it to his feet and extended a hand. “Scotty and Kevin could stand a look-see, if you don’t need a doctor yourself.”

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a veterinarian.” McCoy let Kirk haul him to his feet. “Where are they?”

Kirk’s eyes lit with a slow smile. “I’ll have us all beamed to your office.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Mama says not to forget to say thank you, daddy!” Joanna’s eyes glowed, melting McCoy’s heart. Behind her he could glimpse the big vase of stargazer lilies; at her elbow lay her box of chocolate-dipped strawberries (now reduced mostly to limp green caps and a smear of chocolate on her cheek, but still). 

“Least I could do, punkin.” He wished he could hug her, but just seeing her smile and knowing he’d caused it was the best medicine he’d had in months. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

“Mama said you could call next week. Will you call? You need to find out whether I won my basketball game.”

“Count on it.” Leonard pressed his fingers against the screen, and she laid hers there too-- a connection through light years. 

“I love you, daddy.”

“Love you too, punkin.” The screen went dark, leaving McCoy feeling both overwrought with love and terribly hollow, missing her already.

He got up, glancing around his little apartment. Only a few weeks ago, he’d got up thinking he needed to go buy Joanna a Valentine’s Day bouquet. The room had seemed large enough then, and he hadn’t minded its spartan lack of embellishments; its sterile, empty corners; or its narrow, solitary bed. He’d been aware of the saboteurs, of Starfleet, even of James T. Kirk and his Vulcan first officer… but they hadn’t been _real_. The way they stood between people like Manas and Joanna just hadn’t registered on him then.

He gazed out the window, where it was still dim, indicating the station was still in its night cycle-- he’d got out of bed to make sure he called Joanna well before her bedtime, but it was still very early on Yorktown. 

_Might as well shower and make myself presentable._ He had an important appointment at seven and another one at eight. He was tempted to try for a formal look, but he didn’t have any suitable clothes, so he just put on a pair of khakis and a T-shirt, then covered up with his favorite old bomber jacket.

Deciding he was as gussied up as he could be, McCoy let himself out of the quiet apartment and made his way toward the station center. Maria was waiting in the café, looking at him over a steaming cup, her eyes red-rimmed, a damp hanky in her hand.

“Are you really going to do it?”

McCoy slid into his chair, touched by her obvious distress. “I’d tell you I’m still not sure, but you’d just call me a liar.” A waitress arrived with his own mug-- plain coffee, black; Maria knew him well-- and he blew on it to cool it before taking a cautious sip. 

“I thought you were afraid of flying.” 

McCoy gave her a wry grin. “I’m too stubborn to let that stop me.”

“I’m gonna miss your ugly face.” She managed a damn good approximation of his accent.

McCoy threw his head back and laughed, long and happy. “I’m gonna miss your acid tongue.”

“Not so much. You’ve got plenty of your own.” She was smiling, though, and that was a victory. “Be happy with them, Len.”

“I’ll be grumpy with them,” he grinned. 

“That’s when you’re happiest.” She dabbed at her eyes again, giving him a watery smile. 

“Pair of reckless idiots. They need somebody to look out for them.”

“You just be sure to let them look out for you.” She picked up the remains of her coffee. “I’ve got to get to the office. Dr. Howard needs me to help him extract a marble from a child’s nose. The parents are resisting the idea of sedation.” She rolled her eyes, recovering already.

“God, I won’t miss _that_ part of the job.” McCoy chuckled. “Take care.” 

“And you.”

He watched her go, her white skirt crisp over her long, pretty legs. Things would be just fine here without him.

He sat for a while, savoring his coffee until the dregs went cold. Then he strolled toward ops, wandering lazily through the plaza where the remains of the Franklin were still being disassembled and carted away. The scarred concrete was cordoned off with barricades and yellow tape. How the hell Jim and Spock had managed to survive _that_ free-for-all, he’d never know, but if they hadn’t… nobody on Yorktown would’ve.

He glanced to his right, sensing a newly familiar presence, and found Jim Kirk walking there, smiling at him. “Nice morning.”

“Stalker,” Leonard said without heat. He glanced to his left and there was Spock, just like magic; McCoy rolled his eyes. “Ganging up on a man before he’s even had his breakfast.”

“Good morning to you as well, doctor,” Spock said, imperturbable, and McCoy huffed false annoyance at him.

“I submitted my final report this morning,” Jim said. “I’m recommending you for a civilian commendation. You figured out Manas’s plot right away; none of the rest of us had a clue, but you psychoanalyzed him to a T.” Kirk winked at him. “You’re ideal Starfleet material, you know. You’ll need to take a few tactical courses-- can’t have you running off on your own after every psychotic serial killer who wanders by. There are backup protocols, Bones. You’ll have to pass the survival skills practical and a pilot’s exam, too. But as soon as you jump those few hurdles, I think we could bring you aboard as a lieutenant commander and make you CMO.”

“The retirement plan still stinks,” McCoy groused. “As in, I’m not likely to make it to retirement with a suicidal lunatic like you in the captain’s chair!”

Kirk tilted his chin toward the outer ring and chuckled softly. “Want to head up?” 

“Show me the deathtrap,” McCoy answered, trying to sound appropriately irritable. 

Kirk tapped his comm badge. “Scotty, three to beam up.” He winked at McCoy. “Just don’t let him hear you call her that.”

They materialized in front of Scotty himself, who beamed at them, looking fresh as a daisy. _Doesn’t he ever sleep?_ His sidekick stood nearby, blinking up at McCoy with liquid black eyes.

“Hey, Scotty. Hi, Keenser. You were supposed to keep him off that ankle,” McCoy chided. “By the way, Jim, how’s Kevin doing?”

“Malingering over that cracked rib and having a grand time being the center of attention.” Jim laughed. “He keeps the nurses running. C’mon.”

They led him up to the unfinished sickbay, a cavernous space with exposed conduits, disconnected wires, and empty examination rooms. Spock retrieved a padd of blueprints and handed it to Leonard, their fingers brushing, a touch that lingered just a moment more than it needed to. Leonard blushed; nobody had pursued the possibility of a relationship during the whirlwind of red tape, hearings, reviews, and paperwork that had followed the encounter with Manas-- there just hadn’t been time. But Spock’s eyes were warm now, and Jim stood just that critical fraction too close to McCoy’s shoulder as he inspected the plans. 

“Those specs were state of the art eight years ago, the last time a ship of this class was constructed here,” Jim explained. “I thought you might be able to help us update them.”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah,” McCoy muttered. “You don’t want the S-308 biobed; they don’t tilt. Patients have to climb on. You want the S-316. And what the fuck is this piece of junk they want you to put in the surgical suite? You call that a sterile field generator? It won’t even handle all the known Terran bacterial strains. Who the hell designed this place, Torquemada?” His fingers stabbed at the padd, busily annotating the plans there. “What’s your equipment budget look like, anyway?”

“All design adaptations will be duly considered and are subject to the approval of the Chief Engineer and the First Officer.” Kirk leaned against the wall and watched him go. 

“Well you’d better approve this if you don’t want half your crew to come down with secondary infections every time they need surgical intervention.” Leonard waved the padd at Spock. “And where’s the pressure chamber, hm? How am I supposed to take care of the crew whenever something pierces the hull or some idiot screws up the airlock settings and gets the bends?”

He realized his mistake only when Kirk pushed off the wall and lifted his palm; Spock met it with his own hand in a crisp high-five. 

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Leonard snapped. “I haven’t signed anything yet!”

“Hush,” Jim soothed him, grinning like a possum. “Spock?”

Spock removed the PADD from Leonard’s hands and propped it against the wall, well out of range of clumsy feet.

“Hey, I was using that.” Bones flushed as Jim stepped into his personal bubble and set both hands on his waist. 

“Redesigning sickbay from the ground up can wait,” Jim said, his shining blue eyes sending all rational thoughts flitting right out of Leonard’s head. Spock stepped up behind him, warm and solid, and Bones felt his pulse rate start to skyrocket as hot Vulcan hands settled on his shoulders.

“You only want me because some dried-up old time traveler said you had to,” he protested. 

“Maybe at first,” Jim admitted. “But now we want you because you’re brave and stupid and gorgeous and brilliant and just as crazy as we are.” He was drifting forward already, eyes fixed on Leonard’s mouth. With Spock behind him, there was nowhere for McCoy to go.

“I am not insane,” Spock protested mildly. His warm chest reverberated against McCoy’s back, and Spock’s lips brushed Leonard’s ear, making him shiver. “But the rest of your statement is factually accurate.”

“C’mon, Bones,” Kirk coaxed, breath warm on McCoy’s face. He leaned in, taking a leisurely kiss. His lips felt like spun silk. “Let’s boldly go.” His grin turned lopsided, his eyes hazy-soft. “I’ll show you the stars. Family. _Home.”_ The last word brushed against Leonard’s mouth, tantalizing.

Spock’s body pressed against Leonard’s back, comforting and easy and right, like the gravity that held his feet to the deck, the very same gravity that made the universe spin and drew some things together while it pushed others apart… the irresistible force that made everything go precisely where it was supposed to be.

McCoy sighed, commended his soul to the patron saint of fools… and went.


End file.
